


All Night

by starmansane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Gay Matt Holt, Gay Shiro (Voltron), I am a slut for Beyonce's all night, M/M, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, POV Keith (Voltron), POV Lance (Voltron), Recreational Drug Use, Strangers to Lovers, Trans Pidge | Katie Holt, Underage Drinking, broganes, i really love nyma and rolo fr they just made PERFECT sketch druglords for the purpose of this story, lots of bad jokes, theres literally 0 angst in this because i physically can not write suffering upon these boys, this is set in Toronto! It is NOT ambiguous lol, this took me like 20 months LOL, writing matthew holt was a true pleasure and also blind keyboard smashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starmansane/pseuds/starmansane
Summary: Lance meets a jeopardized Keith in a highway rest stop at 5 in the morning, offers him a ride, his help, and a decade or so of experience with the ins and outs of their city. Keith gets a teen movie whirlwind of a 24 hours out of their arrangement, and maybe a lil' something extra.





	All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Some words (and disclaimers) 
> 
> This is my first fic, go easy lol. I am dedicating it to my sibling Alice who has not once let me live it down that this was sitting unfinished in my docs for like.. 20 months. And they beta'd it since the start, a homie. I wanted it out there before the end of VLD since Klance has been BIG special to me these past couple years. I hope I did them justice bc the show sure didn't lol. I wanna say I took a few creative liberties regarding distance covered in the city, but many of the adventures in this are versions of the past decade I spent growing up in T.O! Spot me some comments or feelings on this. Visit Toronto in the summer. Do whatever I’m not ur boss

When Lance left his dorm earlier that night, he had enough coffee in him to be vibrating through the halls. A rucksack over his shoulder and all his shit packed into the back of his second hand mazda, he was wary with excitement to leave school behind him.  

 

He’s gonna see his friends- his  _ mom- _ again, in just a matter of hours. He had felt summer crawling up and through him for weeks. Nearly four months of a grueling second semester and now he’s on his way  _ home _ . 

 

That same dangerous enthusiasm is probably why he; sweet, unassuming, overconfident (he could continue indefinitely) freshman that he is, didn’t think it would be  _ that bad  _ taking the long road back at 11 pm, a whole day early (surprise, mama!). There’s gotta be something poetic about driving into your hometown while the sun rises. There fuckin better be because Lance sorta hates himself right now. 

 

The analog on his dash now reads 3:04 A.M. Beyoncé’s  _ Lemonade _ is playing in the car and the whole tracklist has looped 3 times. ‘All Night’ just feels like white noise in his ears now which surely means he’s gotta-  _ gotta _ take a breather. 

 

He’s tired. He’s an idiot. He’s heard the horror stories of late night trips home to Toronto from a festival somewhere in French-Canadia. He knows it’s barely possible to drive all alone. He never thought he’d get sick of listening to himself think but it’s happened, so he lets Lemonade play over and over because for some reason Bey’s voice will  _ never _ grate his nerves like his own.

 

Lance has been on the same straight highway for four and a half hours. He must have missed the last rest stop sign and he has no idea how much longer it’ll be until he can see the CN Tower once again, peaking across the skyline a beacon of greeting and hope, enticing with a ‘ _ welcome home, u dumb bitch’ _ sorta vibe.

 

He thinks he could pull over, maybe, just for five minutes of something quiet and forgiving, and then he sees it; The telling artificial glow- 

 

An  _ On Route _ . 

 

Lance could cry. Will. Cry. On Route’s; a symbol of unity, the safe zone, no man’s land. The most decked out highway rest stops across the country. He indicates, and pulls into the empty On Route’s parking lot. 

 

He enjoys the strange comfort of silence for a short moment after he turns off the ignition, before realizing he needs more caffeine sooner rather than later. Dragging himself out of the car, stretching his legs, he takes a couple experimental steps to make sure he hasn’t forgotten how to walk. His joints pop and there’s the possibility of a kink in his neck, but he doesn’t want to agitate it so he trains his head forward. 

 

It’s warm as hell for the beginning of May, but it’s still pitch black and he can’t tell if it’s too early in the year for mosquitoes. It’s not like the holiday season where he was driving through an ice storm to get back, so really he shouldn't worry. 

 

Lance heads for the brightly lit building and checks out the 3 other cars in the lot. There’s a couple motorbikes and a gross, paint-peeling green van that looks even worse for wear than his own shitty whip. There’s peace signs and weed leafs illustrated around the sides like some 14A Mystery Machine and Lance almost wishes he could get away with something so ridiculous. 

 

The On Route looks the same as it did when he was a kid, it’s got those big glassy walls for watching god knows what- the cars go by? A rare deer? The parking lot, devoid of people? Shitty stone lining around the sliding doors, and the same patriotic flagpoles as every other On Route for miles.  

 

He steps through the doors and it just  _ feels _ the way it did when he was a kid, too. The Burger King is closed but the Tim Hortons- thank  _ God- _ is still going strong, and he always wondered who even ended up working in these joints, so far away from any town or city- living in a bubble comprised of tourist shops, toilets, and cafeteria tables. 

 

The tourist shops are closed too. It’s dead in here, really, which is kind of great because he hates lines and in the summertime these places fill up violently fast. Smells like an airport and the  _ great outdoors _ (pine needles and gasoline). A super weird combination that brings up even more memories of his childhood, when On Route’s were the grail of the journey, the fountains from which to replenish and rest. 

 

Lance realizes he’s been standing in the doorway for a stupid amount of time, zoning out at the Tim Hortons and probably creeping out the staff with that glossy look in his eye, so he makes for the front counter. 

 

His voice is a little raspy with disuse so he clears it, “Yeah uhhhhhhhhh,” he starts, staring at the menu even though he’s pretty sure he knows what he wants, “can I get uhhhh, one medium black coffee?” 

 

He dumps a small pile of coins into the cashier’s open palm, empties the rest of his shallow pockets (30 cents) into the little charity container next to the register, and moves away from the counter to wait for his drink, although it’s not like he’s holding up a queue. Lance rubs his eyes because the white lighting in here is all kinds of startling compared to his dim car, and looks around the On Route’s dining set-up. It’s a ton of round tables and benches with that same easy to wipe down plastic surface, but it still reminds him fondly of trips up north to the bays, tumbling out of the crowded car with his siblings just to cram everybody into one small table for an untimely lunch. 

 

“Hey, black coffee?” says the Timmy’s worker, Lance jolts. He says thank you and takes the drink, walking over to one of the tables. 

 

He’d rather let it cool down while he’s stationary than risk spilling hot coffee all over himself in the car, so he takes the lid off and inhales, briefly satiated by the smell, but distracted when he hears the doors to the On Route whoosh open again. 

 

An odd band of individuals walk through. Two in the front consisting of a white girl with thick blonde dreads and teal harem pants, neither of which suit her, and a similarly pasty guy sporting a barely-there embroidered faux-suede vest over his naked torso. He’s got a shock of white hair under an ugly beanie. Both of them have bloodshot eyes and distant expressions.

 

Lance immediately realizes who the green van out front belongs to, and is about to look in the opposite direction because No Thank You Eye Contact when he sees the third in their party. 

 

The first thing he registers is a haircut that he thought died with David Bowie, and of course he’d be subjected to a mullet in an On Route at 3 A.M. 

 

This guy is wearing leather fingerless gloves for some reason too,  _ unhygienic much _ , and old, sad black blundstones.  _ Man’s laziest shoe _ , Lance thinks. The last thing he sees which flips that switch in his brain- the “ _ I don’t like this guy _ ” one, is a crisp white and red  _ Supreme _ shirt. 

 

It also triggers the suspiciously similar-looking switch-  _ “I have a questionable thing for boys who dress like you.” _

 

Unfortunately he can’t deny this guy is cute in a way the other two don’t figure in, with weirdly amazing posture and a sharp jaw and a lean body. Not to mention a pair of soft dark eyes underneath his downright sinful black bangs ( _ mullet???? mullet!!! _ ),  that flit around the room until they meet Lance’s. Lance immediately looks down, feels the flush crawling up his neck. 

 

It’s the middle of the night in an On Route, he’s never gonna see this guy again so there’s no reason to be embarrassed,  _ chill, Lance. _

 

What does it matter if he catches him staring, anyway? The guy looks like a Grade A douchebag, Lance knows his type from uni. He probably has a skateboard, or one of those trick bikes, he probably smokes cigarettes outside of class when he should be indoors learning the shit he’s paying for! He probably thinks he’s so cool and original and listens to like, AC/DC’s top ten on repeat- Lance grinds his teeth. Whatever, thinking about him just adds fuel to the flame. 

 

He sneaks another glance in the trio’s direction. They’ve convened by the Timmy’s and the girl is listing out an order on her fingers. When her hands move a gajillion bangles shimmy with them.  

 

Even from behind this guy makes him angry, with broad shoulders and slim waist and a more explicit view of that ludicrous haircut. Lance chastises himself, reminds himself once more, he’s never gonna see these Fashion crimes again, so he puts the lid on his coffee and stands up, starts to head toward the doors. 

 

Like the fool middle-schooler that he never grew out of, Lance risks one last peek, and is shocked to see that unreadable, cool expression meet his gaze. Mullet is watching him leave! He shoots forward with newfound mortification, practically sprint-walking out of the On Route and over to his car. 

 

Confident that he’s way too far away from the building to be seen, he collapses into the front seat of the car, puts his coffee in the cup holder and turns the radio back on, hoping to drown out- or at least distract from this abrupt burst of adrenaline that he really doesn’t want to know the true cause of. 

 

As he’s pulling out of the parking lot he see’s Mullet, Hippy 1, and Hippy 2 exiting the On Route, climbing into their Trash-On-Wheels. 

 

He kind of gets into the rhythm of the road again after another coffee; it’s easier to keep his eyes open and he finally switches his motivational soundtrack to something else. He starts to remember this time last year when he was nearing the end of high school, going through university apps and saying sort-of-not-really-but-realistically-probably-goodbye to a plethora of friends and experiences.  

 

By 4:30, his mind is yelling about his family and Hunk and how much closer he gets to them as every minute passes, but his bladder wants him dead. Why didn’t he pee at the last rest stop? What kind of novice road tripper is he? Lance can no longer repress the need to piss by the time he sees the next On Route sign passing by. 

 

It feels even more heaven sent than before, but he doesn’t take the time to appreciate the romance and history of the rest stop when he clambers out of his car, locks it behind him, and jets through the front doors. He takes a harsh right into the toilets and is grateful that they’re empty, nobody can see him make a dork of himself as he skids past the mirrors and through a-  _ gross- _ wet puddle on the floor. 

 

The relief is unreal, incomparable, but he doesn’t dally. 

 

He washes his hands and runs them through his short hair. It sticks up at the front so he tries to flatten it, fruitlessly, as the late night humidity has other plans. 

 

Lance walks a little slower back down the long white hallway that connects the toilets to the rest of the building and wipes the excess dampness of his palms on his jeans. 

 

At nearly 5 A.M. now, his mind is processing everything just that little bit slower, so when he sees, shockingly, Mullet, standing by the empty round tables, it doesn’t register as shocking at all at least for five seconds. 

 

When it does, he stops in his tracks. 

 

The guy is entirely without his entourage, furiously picking away at a text or something on his phone and pacing in tight circles. Lance thinks he looks a whole lot less intimidating without the Hippies in tow. 

 

_ Makes sense _ , Lance thinks.  _ Same highway, next rest stop, no big deal. Not even a coincidence. _

 

He doesn’t really know what to do, if he should go back to his car before Mullet sees him and thinks he’s like, following him, or hang around for a second to make sure the guy calms down. 

 

Turns out there’s a third option because Mullet whips his phone onto one of the tables and kicks a bench! Really just goes for the thing in one short swoop, grunting unattractively when the bench does not move (they’re drilled into the floor, genius) and his leg ends up on the receiving end of the attack. 

 

Lance makes a stupid decision then, brain riddled with exhaustion, as he sees a McDonald’s staff member stepping out from behind the counter with quite a serious expression.  

 

He strides over, determined to make it to Mullet before Mr.McD does. 

 

“Hey, buddy!” he starts, already too chipper, he knows it. Mullet’s head snaps up and he zeros in on him frighteningly fast. Lance realizes he’s probably walking pretty quick so he slows up a bit before he goes slamming into the guy.  _ Way to make a first (second?) impression, Lance.  _

 

“Um, sorry, uh-” Lance raises his hands in a kind of,  _ ‘look, no tricks’ _ way, “I just couldn’t help but notice you and that bench- getting into something pretty serious over here.” 

 

Mullet makes absolutely no effort to reply, kind of just watches Lance flail, studies him up and down in one sweeping gaze, a little fire left behind his eyes but he’s mostly wary. Probably just as tired as Lance. 

 

“Not to be super creepy,”  Lance continues, amazed this guy hasn’t punched him because really is there any worse possible way to approach a bro at 5 a.m, “but I saw you at the last rest stop with your friends-” 

 

This garners a scoff that takes the solid form of a “ _ psh-hah! _ ” The guy finally looks away from Lance, over to his phone that sits startlingly uncracked on the far end of the adjacent table. He seems to be contemplating how to reach across without exposing any physical vulnerabilities, like Lance is most surely gonna tackle him. 

 

“They’re  _ not _ my friends,” he says, and  _ ohhhhh nooo  _ does the voice match the cool dusky eyes and the thick wavy hair and the vaguely douchey t-shirt? Bet. 

 

He smartly decides to just walk over to the phone instead of scaling the length of the table like Spiderman. 

 

“No?” Lance gulps. 

 

Mullet looks at him again, “do  _ your _ friends abandon you in On Routes at five in the fucking morning?” 

 

_ What?! _ “Um, I mean- that hasn’t happened to me  _ yet _ , but I know some pretty wild people-”

 

“And steal all your shit? And con you out of your wallet and valued possessions and the ride they kindly guaranteed seven hours ago?” 

 

“Seems kind of pointless to bring you all this way just to book it,” Lance says, realizing that maybe the details of the whole thing are still somewhat sensitive. 

 

“Yeah,” Mullet bites, “does, thanks.” 

 

There’s a suuuuper awkward break in the conversation. At least he’s not kicking chairs anymore. 

 

“So like,” Lance chews his lip, “can someone come and get you?” 

 

“Well I was  _ trying _ to figure that out before my fucking cell died.”    
  


“Ah,” Lance nods, he checks out the make of the phone, “hey! I have the same one, do you want to use my charger?” 

 

He miraculously has it right there in his pocket, like every shitty thing that’s ever happened to him was pay in exchange for this one perfect circumstance. 

 

Mullet accepts it with a slow nod, and Lance points to where he’d guess there’s an outlet, the far glassy wall for watching cars and deer and void from. They sit at the table closest to it and Lance tries really hard to look out the window but he keeps noticing things in the way Mullet moves and breathes and fidgets that are  _ so _ much more interesting. 

 

He really doesn’t know how many times he’s called Mullet  _ ‘Mullet’ _ by now. 

 

“Um, I’m Lance, by the way,” he says, he isn’t sure if he’s at effortless handshake age yet so he awkwardly clasps his palms beneath the table, noting the sweat that binds them. 

 

“Keith,” he replies. 

 

Lance watches the screen of Keith’s phone light up after a few seconds. 

 

“So who you gonna call, Keith?” He almost fucking answers for the guy with a ‘ _ ghostbusters _ ’ but miraculously refrains.

 

“My brother. I was headed to stay with him anyway,” he still sounds bitter but it’s getting harder to keep it up because a cute yawn sneaks in.  _ Uh oh _ . “He’s not gonna appreciate it at this hour and I don’t see him taking kindly to driving two hours from Toronto to get me.”  

 

Lance happily realizes this is the most Keith has said to him since he walked over. 

 

“Hey, I’m heading to T.O. Home for the summer.” 

 

Keith nods, “uni?” 

 

“Yep. Thursday marked my last night as a Montreal fresher.” 

 

“Oh. I’m in first year, too. Montreal… too.” 

 

“Cool, cool,” Lance smiles. A terrible, awful, brilliant idea strikes him. Maybe he should stay up ‘til five more often because he’s been having a pretty consistent string of those. “So those people you were with, the ones with the Garbage Truck.” 

 

Keith  _ almost _ smiles, “what about them?” 

 

“They were supposed to take you into the city?” 

 

He breathes through his nose, “supposed to.” 

 

“Uhhhhhhhhh, well like,”  _ don’t say it, Lance, _ “now you know that I’m also going there maybe do you wanna hitch a ride? We can take shifts, if you can drive? Both of us get where we’re going, I get a blessed hour of sleep, you don’t have to make things rocky with your bro?” he knows he really could have been more eloquent or even just  _ never _ have opened his dumb mouth at all, and Keith looks confused enough that maybe he didn’t even hear him? 

 

“You mean..” 

 

“I just thought like, help a passing stranger out, karma both ways, good stuff, right?” 

 

Keith wrinkles his nose, “I don’t believe in karma.” 

 

“Oh! Okay, well that’s fine. Whatever does it for ya.” Lance shifts as Keith continues to not answer his proposition. 

 

Keith looks down at his phone, fully booted up and on the homescreen. “Um… you’re not gonna kidnap me, right?” 

 

“Dude, first of all, there’s so many cameras in here that plan would be over before it even started, also, I for one  _ do _ believe in karma.” 

 

“I think I could take you,” says Keith abruptly, he gauges Lance for a sec. “mhm. If you tried some shit, yeah. Easy.” 

 

“Uhbuh- excuse me?” Lance huffs, but Keith doesn't seem to hear.

 

“I'm for it,” he decides, both palms on the table either side of his phone, “I'll drive the first hour.” 

 

“Uh- um- yeah,  _ sick _ \- alright. Not to bring it back to that first point, but like, I'm sure I'm stronger than you, bro.” 

 

“You don't wanna bet that,” says Keith, calmly now, he stands up and unplugs his phone from the wall. “I don't have to call my brother, now. You can have this back. Let's hit the road.” 

 

Lance doesn't know how to feel about the way this guy talks, leaving no room for criticism. 

 

Cautiously, a little slower, Lance follows suit. His third Questionable Idea of the night pops into his head. “If I grab a few energy drinks, would you want some?” 

 

Keith shoves his phone into his pocket, and seems to realize quietly that he isn't sure what to do with his hands now, so he shoves them in his pockets, too. He acknowledges then that he's being asked a question. “Oh, uh, sure.” 

 

Lance finger guns at him like a fucking child to which Keith raises a single questioning brow. He quickly breezes over to the vending machines so the guy won't see his entire face flush with embarrassment.   

 

With an armful of Red Bulls and a Monster or two, Lance leads Keith back outside and over to his car. It's kinda weird getting in the passenger side but he's not gonna complain. He leans the seat back as far as it can go, determined to get some rest. 

 

Keith takes a second to get a feel for the car, adjusts the mirror by like a millimeter, pulls the seat up closer to the wheel. Lance slowly realizes he has just invited a complete stranger into the most expensive thing he owns. Slowly realizes it’s likely a bad idea to just, take a nap, given the circumstance. He pulls the seat back up, opens an energy drink, offers it to Keith. His keys, too. 

 

Wordlessly, Keith accepts, takes a couple swigs, and then they're pulling out of the On Route parking lot and back onto the highway. 

 

He almost gets comfortable in the silence when he remembers there's something _ so much better _ to do. Lance plugs his phone back in, scrolls through his library too fast to recognize the artists but with a clear goal in mind. _ Hotline Bling _ bursts out the speakers and Keith jumps in his seat. 

 

“No,” says the guy, “fucking way.” 

 

“So how long have you lived in Toronto?” asks Lance like he heard nothing. 

 

“Turn off  _ Drake _ and I'll consider telling you.” 

 

“You don't like Canadian artists? Where's your national pride?” 

 

Keith side eyes him for a second, they switch lanes. “Pick something else,” he orders. Lance could swear he saw gloved hands tighten on the wheel.

 

“What are you feeling?  _ The Weeknd _ ? Good ‘ol  _ JB _ ?” 

 

“Why does it have to be Canadian?” 

 

Lance gasps, too loud and fast, kind of chokes and coughs. He clears his throat, “uh, how could it be any other nationality? For our homecoming?” 

 

Keith is definitely realizing Lance isn't going to budge. He sighs. Guy has clearly had a long night. Longer than Lance’s. 

 

“Okay… okay.” He shifts. “You got any Carly on there?” 

 

Lance jolts up in his seat, spins to look at him. Keith is experiencing some kind of facial journey, obviously regretting even saying the words. 

 

“Like- Carly Rae-” 

 

“Carly Rae Jepsen.  _ Yeah _ , did I stutter?” 

 

“Uh- no- what, you- you got it, dude!” His fingers scramble for his phone. He scrolls up, selects  _ Making The Most of the Night _ because not only is it a Certified Bop but also fits this new vibe to a T. The opening beat starts. 

 

“You uh….. you like a lot of pop music?” 

 

Keith kinda squirms again. Lance starts tapping along to the song on his knee. 

 

“I've lived with my brother in Toronto for about a decade now. I was born on the west coast in Vancouver.” 

 

Lance realizes belatedly that Keith is answering his previous question. 

 

“Oh. Cool, sick, yeah. I've been to Vancouver, awesome city.” 

 

“I didn't actually live there,” his voice is clipped, “lived on the island. In a small town.” 

 

“Right… nice. I'm sure that was awesome too, right? Hiking and stuff?” 

 

“Hiking? Uh.. yeah, I guess.” 

 

“Why’d you move?” He immediately sees this was the wrong question to ask. Keith presses his lips together into a thin line, sinks further back into his seat. 

 

“Uh- I mean- um, do you like Toronto? Great place to grow up, am I right?” 

 

He normally doesn't give a shit if he's the only one asking questions, it happens most of the time, more than he'd care to admit (brings an onslaught of insecurities forward he'd prefer not to address right this moment), but the more he talks, the more he feels like a douche, like maybe he shouldn't have propositioned this guy. 

 

“Sure,” says Keith, shrugging. He relaxes a teensie bit. “I don't know really, it's like anywhere else.” 

 

“What do you mean? There's no place like this place, anyplace!” he quotes the famous city line, but it goes right over Keith’s head. All he gets is a weird look.  

 

“I go to school, I work, study, whatever. You can do all those things wherever.” 

 

“Are you telling me you don't go out on weekends? Don't hang out downtown- Toronto Islands- the Beaches, the west end? And you've lived there for a  _ decade _ ?” 

 

“It's not that irregular,” Keith defends, “I just focused on school.” 

 

“Your friends never suggested you take a day off and go to the museum? Or like, a market? You know we have those,” Lance stresses, “we like, have some nice markets.” 

 

Keith keeps his steely gaze forward. 

 

Does Lance dare? Lance dares. “You… have friends?” 

 

“Only friends I had just took off with all my shit.” 

 

“Dude…” Lance breathes. 

 

“God,” Keith snaps, “no- listen- it's not- it's not some sob story, okay? I'm not like- I'm not lonely or- Who even  _ are _ you?” he says indignantly. “What do you want? Why are you asking so many questions?” 

 

“Maaaan, I'm sorry, I just, like personally, need my crew, you know? I can't imagine not having my network. My friends are my support.” 

 

“That's great for you,” Keith grunts, “I'm really happy for you,  _ man _ .” 

 

Lance is fucking up stellarly. “Ohhhhh, duuuude, no- I’m really sorry, I'm so tired bro, so tired, I don't think I’m normally this insensitive-” but like, also, Keith seems to throw up a red light at every other thing he says! He sucks in a breath, “is there anything you'd prefer to talk about?” 

 

“I thought you wanted to nap,” Keith snaps. Lance feels a twinge of hurt. He doesn't say anything, but he kind of wants to insult Keith's stupid shirt, suddenly. He still doesn't say anything. 

 

He watches the street lamps zoom by, illuminating them both in a soft yellow glow every few seconds. Shrubbery and pine trees on one side of the highway, a road leading in the opposite direction on the other. Less cars leaving Toronto than approaching.

 

“How… how long have you lived in the city?” Asks Keith, just a murmur. 

 

“My family immigrated here with my older siblings and me when I was one, I've been here my whole life,” he shares, trying not to seem too excited that Keith asked  _ him _ something this time. 

 

Keith perks, “where from?” 

 

“Cuba,” he says fondly, “grandparents still live there. They wanted us to stay close, but my parents wanted to live somewhere a little bit more progressive than the US. And they wanted to see the snow.” 

 

Keith actually snorts, tries to turn it into a sneeze or something dumb like that, “do they.. do they still like the snow, now?” 

 

Lance feels a smile creep across his face. “I'd say the novelty finally wore off the year that storm took out the power in the pseudo-burbs for the entire winter holidays. My mom is a  _ biiiig _ Christmas stan.” 

 

“I remember that. I think we were okay that year, mercifully.” 

 

“Impossible! Wasn't the power down, like, everywhere for a while?” 

 

Keith shakes his head. “My brother lives in the business district, on Bay Street.” 

 

“Holy  _ shit _ ,” Lance exclaims, “is your brother  _ loaded _ ?” 

 

“He runs a pretty successful startup. Lives really close to the head offices for convenience.” 

 

“Wow… jeez. Don't tell me he's on the 25th floor of one of those swanky condo complexes?” 

 

“No..” says Keith, “unfortunately just the 23rd.” 

 

“ _ Yoooooo _ ! That's so cool!” Lance claps his hand on the dashboard, leans forward, watches Keith intently, “that's where you're headed, then?” 

 

“It is,” Keith nods, “can I trust you not to stalk me after you drop me off?” 

 

“Mmmmm Keithy My Guy, I really don't know if I can sign those Terms of Agreement. Your life sounds classy as fuck.” 

 

Keith shoots him an incredulous look. 

 

“I mean, I grew up in deep Scarborough, so those downtown condos are the lifestyle of my dreams.” 

 

“I’ve never been to Scarborough,” Keith admits. 

 

Lance laughs, “what!? Don’t tell me you pronounce the second ‘T’ in Toronto, too?”

 

Keith nearly smiles, and Lance practically preens, deciding he wants nothing more than to see that smile again for as long as he possibly can. 

  
“It’s where all the best food is,” says Lance knowingly. “I’ve never had spicy fries or samosas that top the ones down the street from my old high school.” 

 

Keith doesn’t respond, but when Lance chances a peek at him, his resting expression is much sweeter than before, a small curve playing at the edge of his mouth. 

 

Lance finds himself content to let the music distract him (it’s hard, when the boy sitting in his car seems to be getting cuter and cuter the more time he spends there) and eventually Keith is confident enough to give out suggestions off the album  _ Emotion _ . At some point, they switch to  _ Side B _ and  _ Kiss _ and Keith actually bops his knee up and down and mouths along the words to  _ Fever _ . 

 

That gets Lance’s stomach flipping up and around and feelin’ some way, but he has no time to think about it because all of a sudden they’re pulling off the highway into the city. They’ve finished the last of the energy drinks.

 

It’s about 7:30 in the morning when they drive down a side alley surrounded by big financial district skyscrapers just starting to wake up for a full work day. The sun seems to have risen ages ago, because summer grants beautifully long days.

 

Keith parks on the 2nd basement floor of a condo garage. Lets out a deep exhale and leans back in his seat when the engine goes quiet with finality. 

 

“Shit man,” Lance realizes, watching his posture just about melt into the seat, “we never switched!” 

 

“It’s fine,” says Keith, he turns and looks at him. “I mean, you had to drive all night until a couple hours ago, right?”

 

“I- I guess, dude. I mean, thanks. I feel bad for not sleeping,” Lance shrugs, “might have felt more worth it.” 

 

“I got a ride home. That’s all I needed,” Keith says it like a very serious ‘thank you’. He look toward the dashboard for a second, then back at Lance. “Did you… uh. Do you want to come upstairs?” 

 

Lance’s eyes bug out.

 

“You can- look at the view! Is what I mean. The fancy condo view you were talking about before. It’s, uh, it’s the same to me now as it’s always been. You can probably appreciate it better than me… or you probably- need to go home- drive back- I guess Scarborough is sort of out of the way, I didn’t even think-” 

 

“Keith-”

 

“-you probably haven’t seen your family in months- I’m sorry, I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea, you have to get going! You-

 

Lance cuts his panic short, “Keith! Man, I’m so down, if it’s really cool with you.” 

 

Keith nods with big jerks of his head. That was clearly out of his comfort zone. “Great… yeah… yeah.” he will not look at Lance’s face, instead tosses Lance the keys real fast and busts out of his seat belt and the car, slamming the door. 

 

Lance only takes a second to breathe, and think (not about how cute it was to see Keith flustered like that), and squeeze his eyes shut then open again a couple times. He follows Keith out the car. 

 

* * *

 

They take an elevator up from the parking garage to the 23rd floor, and walk down the hall to stop at one of the many identical doors. Keith tries the handle and it’s open. “My brother knew I was coming back this morning,” he reaffirms. 

 

Inside of the apartment is clean and bare but presently lived in. There a couple questionable fixtures- a weirdly patterned rug and a strange modernist lamp. Otherwise it looks right out of a commercial, including the startlingly attractive man sitting at the kitchen island eating Wheaties. 

 

“Keith!” he says, abandoning the cereal and hopping off the bar stool. Keith allows this man to hug him, gingerly patting him on the back and smiling full of what Lance only recognizes as relief when they pull away. Lance feels weird now, but he closed the door behind him already so it would be incredibly rude to sneak out. 

 

“Shiro, this is Lance. He’s uh.. A friend from school.” 

 

Shiro is only a couple inches taller than Lance, but comically tall and broad next to his little brother. There’s a premature shock of white hair across his forehead and an impressively symmetrical scar over his nose. He’s dressed like a CEO but only looks about 25.

 

“Great to meet you, Lance,” says Shiro, making all the terrifying eye contact Keith progressively lacks at once and extending a hand. Lance shakes it, only realizes it’s the coolest prosthetic he’s ever seen when Shiro relinquishes his grip. 

 

“Yeah, you too, I’m just uh- here for a hot minute- I’m sure you guys want to spend the day together.” 

 

“Unfortunately, I was just heading out to the office,” says Shiro, “do you mean you’re not staying here?” 

 

“Oh, no, I live in Toronto as well, family roots and stuff.” 

 

“Aw that’s too bad, it would be nice for Keith to have a buddy around the place for a couple weeks.” 

 

“Shiro, _J_ _ esus _ ,” Keith shuffles next to him, “don’t you have to get outta here?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, nice to see you as well, bro. Hope school treated you well,” he grabs Keith’s shoulder and shakes him a bit before pulling him in again for a side hug. 

 

“Make yourself at home, Lance, there’s smoothie stuff if you haven’t had breakfast.” 

 

Smoothie stuff. This guy is a real adult. Lance surely has friends his age still getting lit every night and playing drums out the back of their vans. 

 

Lance nods his thanks. Shiro walks back over to the kitchen, dumps his cereal milk in the sink and grabs a messenger bag. 

 

“Keith, I’m having a few work friends over tonight, heads up. I’ll see you later, kid,” he ruffles Keith’s hair akin to how Lance would his own siblings’. 

 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Shiro overwhelms him with a bright smile once again, and leaves the apartment. 

 

“Jheeeeez,” says Lance after a minute, “you guys are real different, huh?” He has suddenly realized he had friends in high school who’s places and family he didn’t get to know for years after meeting them. Keith doesn’t reply, looks supremely uncomfortable that they’re alone again. 

 

He asks if he should take off his shoes the same time Keith asks if he’s hungry. It comes out garbled and out of sync between them. 

 

Lance chuckles, “if you are, dude.” 

 

“Um. Yeah, I’m actually gonna get changed, but the balcony is over there,” he points to the far wall. 

 

“Sure, take your time.” 

 

Keith nods and swallows dryly. Disappears down the darker hall in the apartment. 

 

Lance wanders over to the sliding doors and steps out onto the balcony. He’s a dramatic bitch, but he doesn’t let his gasp come out too powerful as the wind hits him and he takes in the morning skyline. 

 

He sits with his legs between the rails for a while, dangling in the 23rd floor breeze. 

 

They face away from the CN Tower, but he can still see the harbourfront, and a few more condos being built- climbing their way up to prominence, and Lakeshore Boulevard that would take him all the way back east to the beach. It’s a beautiful day. 

 

Right when he’s considering taking a snapchat for his fans (like, one friend that will care), the door slides open again behind him and Keith sets a mug of coffee down next to him. “I didn’t know how you took it, so…” it’s black, Lance smiles.

 

“Black is fine,” he says. Although he likes the occasional embarrassingly sweet Starbucks, growing up in a busy and crammed house left no time in the morning for personalized coffee. 

 

Keith sits down next to him, tucks his legs through the rails as well. He has a plate full of strawberries with him that Lance finds weirdly endearing, and he puts it between them. 

 

“I can see my house from here,” he jokes, peeking at Keith, who sorta smiles again. Makes the serotonin part of his brain just fuckin’ lose it.

 

They munch on fruit for a while and Lance feels pleasantly summery for a minute, and then wildly excited for the warm months ahead. All this time that’s been freed up that he hadn’t had for a whole year. Seeing all the people he loves again. Lying in the sun. Lying in the warm wind. Listening to the perfect soundtrack. He looks to his side, to Keith, who looks lost in thought, a little sad. 

 

He remembers what Keith had been through that night before. An idea smacks him in the face. 

 

“Hey Keith,” he says, “if you want- I mean I just feel bad about you losing your stuff… would you want me to….I mean, I have this buddy of mine, he’s great, he knew- I’m not kidding- like everybody in the fuckin’ city when we were growing up. Knew everybody at every school in senior year of high school, at least.” 

 

Keith looks confused but is nodding, so Lance continues, “I thought maybe I could, I could call him and see if he knows anything about those guys that drove off without you? Or if- if you don’t have a busy day, we could go visit him. I bet he knows somebody who can help.” 

 

Startled, Keith thinks for a minute. His gaze flits out across the city, his hair whips gently around his smooth face. 

 

“Sure,” he mumbles, “I mean… if you aren’t busy. I’d really appreciate that.” for one rare and amazing moment, his lovely dark eyes look up at Lance’s.

 

“Not busy!” Lance squeaks, “I was hoping to see him today anyway!” his voice has raised an octave,  _ why _ ? In his gay-ass panic, Lance realizes how stupid Keith’s change of clothes is and voices as such. 

 

“Why are you dressed like an art hoe? I would have avoided you so hard in school,” Lance snorts but doesn’t miss the way Keith sort of flinches, “I mean,” he continues, “I’m just taken aback by the orange camo. The Supreme shirt wasn’t…. That bad. But I guess you’re a risk taker, eh?” 

 

“What’s wrong with camo?” Keith picks at the thread on the fitted cargo pants. He’s wearing ratty skater shoes and a white t-shirt that is…..nearly a crop top. Nearly. The gloves from the last outfit stayed. 

 

“Isn’t the point to blend in?” Lance teases. 

 

Keith shrugs but he’s smiling, too. That little smile Lance is quickly coming to realize is just the starting potential of something far more dazzling. 

 

“I mean, you’re one to talk,” Keith says, “frat boy.” 

 

Lance makes a flustered, indignant sound, but his eyes catch on two sparkles either side of Keith’s head and he can forcibly say no more once his brain processes  _ sweeeeeeet sweet earrings _ . 

 

“Call your friend,” Keith says with a satisfied smirk, and picks up their empty mugs and the plate and walks back inside. 

 

Lance shuffles further back on the the balcony to take out his phone, finds the contact he’s looking for and presses call before he can think any further about how wildly delightful he is finding Keith. 

 

It rings twice before it gets picked up. 

 

_ “Lance, fahm! What’s up! You’re awake early!”  _

 

Lance laughs, ecstatic to hear Hunk’s voice. “Hey man! I just got back! I’m with this- this guy-”

 

_ “Oh...Lance…” _

 

“NO, no, hear me out- I found him in an On Route-”

 

_ “Lance! A complete stranger!?”  _

 

“Hunk!” he hisses into the phone, biting back a smile, “he’s really cute, okay? There are no malicious intentions on either side, here. I’m just smitten on some shit, alright?”

 

There’s a pause. 

 

_ “What’s his name?” _

 

“His name is Keith. He goes to uni in Montreal, too. Maybe same school as me, I don’t know. He got abandoned at a rest stop by some assholes and he needs help getting his stuff back from them. They’re in the city.” 

 

_ “You drove him home? You goof, I forgot how fucking sincere you are sometimes. Reach, I’ll see if I can hook him up with anyone that can help.”  _

 

“Thanks man, thank you, really. I love you, bro. I missed you,” Lance says, he means it so, so much.

 

_ “I’ll see you soon, buddy. Love you too.”  _

 

The line goes dead. Lance gazes out across the city once again. He does end up snapping a pic or two. 

 

He walks back into the apartment where Keith is laying their dishes on a drying rack. 

 

“Ready to go?” he asks, swinging his car keys around a finger. 

 

“It’s alright with your friend?” Keith asks. 

 

“He can’t wait to meet you,” Lance grins.

 

* * *

 

Lance drives them to Scarborough, because obviously he knows the district. Knows it like the back of his hand. Keith wastes no time in picking the music this time. He shoves the aux cord into his phone with force while staring very seriously at Lance, who’s shoulders shake on a near comical level as he laughs. It’s cute and Keith feels embarrassingly proud of himself for prompting it. 

 

Lance takes pleasure in coasting up the main road that used to bus him to his high school, takes a left onto a smaller street, a couple more turns, pulls up into the driveway. 

 

“I did forget to mention,” he admits, “I have to drop the car off. We can walk to Hunk’s from here.”

 

“You mean…?” Keith trails. 

 

“Yeah, I’m just gonna dump the keys inside and surprise the dukes,” Lance smiles funnily, “you can come on in.” 

 

They walk around the side of the house and up the back steps together but Keith insists he’ll stay on the porch. Lance doesn’t mind. He gives the door handle the shimmy it needs to un-click and walks over the threshold, breathing in  _ home _ . 

 

He goes into the kitchen, messy and wooden unlike the sparse stainless steel in Keith’s apartment. 

 

“Hello?” he calls, he can’t help the excitement in his tone. He waits a few minutes, checks the fridge out of curiosity-so much tupperware- he looks at all the notes on the fridge. His high school exam scores are still there, oof. 

 

Nobody’s home, he knows. Somebody would be downstairs by now, if they were. He doesn’t let himself get disappointed. There’s a cute boy on his porch. He can surprise his mom next time. 

 

He grabs a sticky-note and draws a few hearts on it with blue pen. Slaps it on the counter and puts the car keys next to it.

 

He runs upstairs and changes quickly into fresh clothes, catches himself in the mirror as he’s about to leave and thinks, okay, yeah, maybe a little bit of a frat-boy vibe. But shorts, snapback, and a loose tank top have never failed a man before. He grabs a hoodie too and ties it around his hips because it’s not July yet. 

 

Keith is right where he left him, hilariously out of place with those pants in Scarborough, Lance thinks. He starts to forget that nobody was home. 

 

“He’s just up the street,” Lance says, gesturing to the sidewalk. 

 

They have to cross a main road and walk a couple blocks. Scarborough is flat and rural but still smells and acts like city. It’s weird. There are a lot of bungalows, but every now and then a big modern mansion- right next to rows of residential housing. Some boring white family who cashed out on cheap property, he thinks. In the distance, a massive grey apartment block. There’s a field here or there. Also weird.

 

Lance’s friend’s small complex is half covered in graffiti, and Lance points out the tags change practically every week.

 

He leads them to one of the doors on the main floor, knocking loudly. 

 

_ “It’s open!” _ comes from inside, deep and booming. 

 

Lance smiles widely at the voice and it dissipates some of Keith’s anxiety as they go inside. It smells delectable and it’s sunny through the blinds.

 

This is clearly a student’s living space. There’s clothes on the floor, plants everywhere, some alive, some dying. They walk down a narrow hall to a tiny kitchen. It vaguely smells of weed now they’re really in there.

 

“Laaaance!” comes a woman’s voice. “Babyyyyy!” she says again, strong arms coming around him and lifting him off his toes for a moment. 

 

“Shayyyy!” he cries with equal fervor, squeezing her back, but catches the gaze of a man over her shoulder and goes, “HUUUNK!” reaching out with wiggly fingers. The man laughs, the same booming voice they heard through the door, and hugs Lance around his girlfriend. 

 

Keith stands hugely out of place by the entryway watching the familial embrace with wide eyes. He’s never even been this emotional with Shiro. It plays out gradually, they finally all release one another. 

 

“Y’all want pancakes?” Shay asks. Her hair is beautifully short and frizzy around her cute round face, large gold earrings framing it, funnily placed besides big gauges. 

 

“Always, baby,” Lance says seriously. He looks back over at Keith, “you want pancakes, Keith?” 

 

“Um.. sure,” he nods, looking unsurely between the three of them. 

 

“Keith! I’m Hunk,” says the giant brown guy, the kindest look in his eyes Keith nearly glazes over the fact he could probably dead lift a train. He walks over to Keith and gestures in a  _ ‘okay if I hug?’ _ fashion. Keith realizes he is nodding without hesitation and Hunk envelops him. 

 

_ Toasty _ and  _ strong _ overwhelm him.

 

“I hear you had quite the night,” Hunk says, gesturing the two of them over to the small kitchen table. Shay returns to the pancakes on the stove. 

 

“Missed you fahm, glad to see you made it out of first year alive,” he says to Lance, who beams. They reach across the table and almost subconsciously slide hands in a practiced handshake. 

 

“Hell yeah bro, ready for summer?” 

 

“Most definitely. Bowl?” he asks, pulling a tall, yellow bong up onto the table. 

 

“Pass,” says Lance. 

 

“Bowl?” Hunk asks Keith, he brings out a small box too. 

 

“No, thank you,” says Keith. 

 

“Sweet,” hums Hunk, more to himself as he opens the box, plucks out a grinder and starts packing. “Lucky you ran into Lance,” he picks up from before. 

 

Keith looks at Lance (really looks at him again- which he might be doing too much, but who is he to have ever read social cues well), indulges in the sharp jaw and pointed nose for just a second and agrees with a soft “yeah.”

 

“Doors open to all the homeless kids in high school, I can tell ya that,” he continues, “he’ll stop for a bird with a broken wing on the busiest day of his month.” 

 

“Dude,” Lance says, sheepish, “c’mon.” 

 

Hunk winks at him and takes an impressive, natural toke off the bong, passing it to Shay who pulls up a chair beside them and takes a smaller hit. Hunk exhales long and slow and the smell of summer festivals and 15 minute breaks in the service industry fills up the room. Lance and Keith smile despite their earlier decision. They clearly both have positive associations. 

 

“So what are their names?” Hunk asks Keith, “the people that took your stuff?”

 

“Oh,” Keith startles, thinks about the dealers who fucked him over again and the association goes bad. “Uh, Rolo and Nyma. Nyma Beezer, she grew up here.” 

 

“I know Nyma, yeah,” says Shay. “we went to catholic school together.” 

 

“Yikes,” says Lance.

 

“Yikes is right,” she nods at him. 

 

“The co-ed one out west?” he asks.

 

“No, all girls south of here.”

 

“Double yikes.” 

 

“Double yikes is right,” says Hunk.

 

Keith is shocked for a moment. Shay knows her? Just like that?

 

“Pidge went to high school with you, right?” Hunk confirms. “I’d say they’re your best bet, man. If they knew Nyma too they can probably get you her address.” 

 

He sees the confused face Keith is making. “Pidge is their handle, they got on some like, hacktivist shit, but it pretty much consumed their whole identity. ” 

 

“Oh,” says Keith, “well, uh, thank you. Uh. So much.”  _ God, he’s so fuckin’ awkward. _

 

“But of course. Have a pancake, please,” Hunk offers, shoving the big plate further into the center of the table. “I have a set tonight,” he adds, “down?” 

 

“Hunk! Of course!” Lance slaps the table excitedly, “I missed your shows so bad.” He picks up a pancake with his fingers and seeing no other option Keith follows.

 

“We’ll see you there tonight?” Shay reiterates. 

 

“I mean, for sure, once Keith has his stuff back I’m all yours, baby,” he bats his eyes at her and she laughs. 

 

Keith suddenly feels something ugly. What is he doing here with three people he hardly knows, who clearly want to spend hours together catching up  _ in private _ . 

 

“Lance,” Keith says quietly around his pancake, “if you wanna stay here and hang out I’m sure I can find your friend by myself.”

 

Lance gapes at him, “What? No way bro, I gotta stick around and make sure this works out. We’re  _ ride or die _ now, man.” 

 

Keith’s ears burn. 

 

Hunk watches between them, smiles cheekily. “Let me hit up Pidge,” he says, pulling out his phone and tapping away at the screen for a minute. 

 

“Yeah, they’re free for a bit. Chinatown. Can you guys make that?”

 

“Sure,” says Lance easily, “man, haven’t seen the gremlin for ages.”

 

“They have some summer classes but if you can meet them around lunchtime they’ve got an hour.” 

  
“Great, that gives us a couple to get there. Ready for the TTC, Keithy?” Lance grins, “bet you never take busses. Does Shiro have a fancy lexus?”

 

Keith’s neck follows his ears, gets warm at the nickname. He thinks about his bike. “Something like that.”  

 

“They said _ “ramen is the mood” _ so I’m sending you the address of the restaurant, Lance.”

 

“Thank you, and thanks for the pancakes. I’ll definitely see you guys later,” Lance gets up out of his seat, indicative that they should be leaving.

 

“Sick. Keith, you’re welcome too, the more the merrier,” Hunk smiles warm and kind again, eyes a little red, “before y’all go, though,” he reaches into the little box he had his weed in and pulls out a pre-rolled joint, “welcome home present,” he kisses it childishly, “light it with good music playing,” he requests, and hands it to Lance, who brings it to his heart.

 

“I’ll treasure it,” Lance wipes away a fake tear.

 

“Bye baby,” says Shay, reaching across the table and taking Lance’s hand for a moment, squeezing it, “nice to meet you honey,” she says to Keith. 

 

Keith says a polite thank you before they are both hugging him again, and then him and Lance are back out on the sidewalk amidst the mid-morning traffic. 

 

“If we cross the road again there’s a bus that takes us to the subway,” Lance says cheerily.

 

“Lance,” Keith says as they walk, “you know you really... Don’t have to do this. It seems like we’re going all around the city. Don’t you want to catch up with your friends?” 

 

“I’ll see them tonight man, it’s okay. Besides, I don’t mind being your own personal tour guide. Ten years and you’ve never been to Scarbs, unbelievable,” he shakes his head jokingly, “It’s gonna be fun,” he promises. 

 

They cross again, and sit side by side on the bench at the bus stop. 

 

“I want to,” says Lance, continuing where Keith thought he’d finished. “I want to, so nothing else should matter, right?”

 

“Why?” Keith finds himself asking, “you don’t even know me.”

 

“I want to,” Lance repeats, shrugging kinda awkward and smiling kinda crooked. Keith’s heart surely skips. 

 

The bus arrives and Lance pays for both of them when Keith realizes his wallet is, still in fact, in Nyma Beezer’s stupid/ugly/grimey van. As they grab proof-of-payment transfers, Lance tells him one time he got kicked off a bus because he forgot to take one. He smiles real wide at the bus driver.

 

Lance bounces (and Keith teeters) to the back of the bus as it rocks forward. They slide into a paired seat. Keith marvels at the enthusiasm of this man who hasn’t slept a wink in a day.

 

“Love Chinatown,” says Lance, “love it. Dropped acid there once, used to hit up Pitchers every Friday in the twelfth grade, Keith, it’s great, the food is great, the  _ energy _ .” 

 

Keith finds it hard to keep up. “Acid? What’s Pitchers?” 

 

“Hunk and I were pretty wild in high school. I’ve calmed down a lot now I’m an old college man,” he says, pensive, “he has too. You saw him smoking back there, but he’s an engineering student now downtown, so he only lets loose like that when school is over.” 

 

“Aren’t you also nineteen?” Keith asks, “that’s not old.” 

 

“Yeah, well it’s old enough to know casual hard drugs aren’t for me. School is the focus now. I wanna make my mama proud.” 

 

The bus passes over a particularly large bump, it jostles them, shoulders thwacking into each other.

 

“Pitchers is more of an abstract concept than a place,” Lance adds.

 

Keith doesn’t know how to respond to that, so instead he wonders, “What are you studying?” 

 

Lance’s expression contorts, he looks at the back of the seat in front of him. “I haven’t picked a major yet. I’m taking a lot of communications courses. Some biology, some astronomy, some physics. I don’t know. It’s all really hard. Sometimes I catch myself leaning toward something because it’s easier to coast through, but I know that’s a cop-out.” 

 

Keith understands how little he knows about Lance. “Me too.” he says quietly. “I haven’t picked a major.” 

 

Lance grins, “no shit, I think we’re just the indecisive generation, you know? There’s a lot on our shoulders.” 

 

“Yeah. I want to do something that’s gonna help on a global scale, but at the same time…” Keith trails off. 

 

“At the same time?” Lance pushes, “tell me your passions, Keith,” it comes out silly, but it sounds so genuine, too.

 

“I guess, Shiro would kill me, but I want to do film stunts, you know? Or- I even thought….” he takes a breath, “I thought maybe I could be one of those international journalists who travels to location to report. That helps on a global scale, right?”

 

Lance is nodding, “yeah,” he agrees, “but I think you could be a stuntman too and bring a little life to a lot of people’s hearts. Sounds like you enjoy putting yourself in critical situations.” 

 

“I guess that was my hobby growing up,” Keith sort of jokes-sort of admits- “I climbed a lot of stuff I probably shouldn’t have. Did martial arts and learned how to drive fast.”

 

“What, drive your bro’s lexus?” Lance chuckles.

 

“I actually have a bike,” says Keith, pride swelling in him just a little. He loves that bike. 

 

“Like a- a legit bike?”

 

“One with an engine. A Legit bike.”

 

Lance gawks, “that is maaaaad cool,” he says, funny sounding in his city accent. “You must be one of the youngest people I know with a M2 license.” 

 

“I applied as soon as I turned sixteen.” 

 

“Pretty fuckin’ sick death wish,” Lance whistles. 

 

“Red’s my baby,” Keith shrugs, as though he never had a choice in the matter. “Got me.. Uh.. got me through a lot.”

 

“You named your bike..” Lance snorts, but then the bus slows, “Oop- we’re here!” 

 

They take a big sweeping turn into the Scarborough subway station and Lance and Keith clamber out of their seats. 

 

The walk to the subway platform is short and Lance talks about how on weekends during high school he would take transit into the city and stop for the bagels from the little cafe on the way, because there’s nothing like them anywhere he’s ever been. He waves at the baristas as they pass by and they greet him by name. He takes the escalator stairs two at a time and Keith admires his long legs, warm brown and toned like the rest of him.  

 

When the train pulls into the station it is crammed full of people and muggy- the AC is often broken, Lance says, and the city thinks nobody notices or cares enough for them to fix it.

 

Keith listens, but mostly watches Lance talk; shoved in close, slightly hunched, and surrounded by a bunch of strangers on their daily commutes, he still finds the space to laugh and gesticulate wildly as he tells stories about him and Hunk growing up, about Chinatown more and more. Keith watches a bead of sweat track down his forehead from under his hat down the curve of his jaw. He swallows the humidity of the train car. He’s too aware of the way it clogs his throat, leaving him short of breath. 

 

Keith still finds it too much to look in his eyes too long. There’s this thing with Lance’s eyes that he’s never seen before in real life. The right one is such a deep brown it’s almost black, but the left one is blue. He thinks the condition could be a mouthful of a medical term... heterochromidia? Heterochromia? 

 

He really doesn’t want to stare too long- surely Lance deals with that day in and out anyway, his one blue eye creates a startling contrast against his dark skin. It’s impossible to miss. But as Keith is realizing, the more he gets to know Lance the more spectacular Lance’s face becomes to watch. It’s a problem.  

 

The train jerks to a stop and shakes Keith from his reverie. People file off and people file on, and Keith finds himself pressed even closer to sweaty, spectacular Lance. They pull out of the station and the automated voice on the train finally calls their stop-  _ Spadina- _ he actually remembers this street from driving down it on an empty morning during one of his quarter-life crises a couple years ago. 

 

A few people pile off the train with them. Lance checks his phone. “Oh, looks like we have a bit before Pidge is out of class.” He thinks for a minute. They take the stairs up out of the station. “I know we shared a little musical education in the early hours,” he says, “wanna check out Sonic Boom?” 

 

“Huh?” Keith says, searching his mind for those two words next to each other. 

 

“Oh, boy, buddy- dude,” Lance smiles wildly, they step out into the sunshine and start walking down the main road, “let’s do it.”

 

So many signs indicative that they’re right in the middle of Chinatown- grill restaurants and noodle joints, red and gold storefronts, market stalls for herbs and veggies and jade jewelry set up dangerously along the curb. People bustle around them at a big intersection, it’s loud and bright, and Keith’s eyes trail up red poles with carved dragons perched at the top, their paint chipping away, sitting between the lane ways. 

 

The minute he pauses in his tracks an old woman gets in front of him and starts shoving pamphlets into his hands, speaking quick and loud in mandarin.

 

“Oh- uh, no- no thank you-” he says, stepping back.

 

The pamphlet reads  _ “Karl Marx was a Satanist” _   beneath some Chinese characters. He begins to change his mind, but Lance gets between them and dodges out of her way.

 

“Have a nice day!” Lance calls over his shoulder as they scurry off. They take a couple more blocks south, and then Lance is steering him gently by his shoulders through the doors of a big stone building with wide modern windows. He tries desperately not to think too hard on how Lance’s hands feel on his back.

 

“Sonic Boom,” says Lance, crossing the floor and jumping down the stairs into the basement of the record shop, he spins and throws his arms out with a flourish, “the coolest place in the world, and also it’s in Scott Pilgrim,” he grins, walks confidently over to pop/rock. Keith shakes his head fondly. 

 

“So we know you don’t like Drake, which, uh-  _ rude- _ but, how’s a man feel about Rihanna?” 

 

Keith smiles, “I can’t speak bad of God.” 

 

Lance lets out a dramatic sigh of relief, he thinks back to 3 A.M, to playing Lemonade over and over. “Concept album kind of boy?” he asks. 

 

Keith shrugs. “Whatever will help me focus, I guess.” 

 

“I bet you like EDM, huh? Bet you love a good bass.” They walk through the narrow aisles, sometimes stopping to flip through the vinyl. 

 

“Like I said, if it doesn’t distract me, it’s good.”

 

“I think you’re lying,” Lance smirks, “because you went off to Carly this morning. Don’t think I was too tired to notice.” 

 

Keith’s ears get warm ( _ again! Control yourself _ ) and he shrugs emphatically, “well Carly is a special…. A special case. She gets me.”

 

“Music is immersive. It’s there so you can feel it in your  _ bones _ , Keith. The lyrics are for you to reminisce, the sound is for you to vibe with the romance of the moment you are experiencing. It’s positively scientific, dude.” 

 

“Are you a music major? I don’t think so,” Keith rolls his eyes. 

 

“No, but I know enough that you should feel lucky I’m taking pity on your poor soul. Your music library should be like an open journal, dig? Like, I can listen to a song and immediately be transported back to the first time I heard it, or the time it solidified a moment for me- made a moment real in my mind forever. It’s like, when a photo isn’t enough. You close your eyes, you put on that song, and you’re there. It’s like time never passed.” 

 

He pauses, suddenly looks at Keith (all of Keith, in some way), and smiles kind of sheepish.

 

“I’m rambling,” he barks.

 

“That’s okay,” says Keith, sorta soft. 

 

Neither of them follow up straight away. They’ve both stopped strolling, and they stand on either side of a row of records, staring over it at one another.

 

“Come to Hunk’s set tonight." says Lance, "Listen to tracks being split together live. Dance.” 

 

“I…. can’t do that. Dance.” he shakes his head. 

 

“It’s okay. Nobody’s ever reeeeally watching you, Keith. In fact, they’ll be watching me,” he stops walking, pops a hip out. Keith laughs.

 

“Maybe,” he settles on, “maybe, okay?”

 

“Okay,” says Lance, smiling, biting his lower lip in a habit Keith only just caught now.  _ That’s a fuckboy habit, _ Keith thinks.  _ That’s flirting.  _

 

But then the expression is replaced with something much less open, and Keith can’t pin it, still sweet and affectionate but mellower across his features.  

 

“Do you want to know what they stole?” Keith asks suddenly. “Rolo and Nyma,” he clarifies. 

 

They continue to stroll Sonic Boom. “You don’t have to tell me,” says Lance. 

 

“No, I want to. You’re helping me get it back, after all. You’re pretty much doing all the work.” 

 

“Alright,” Lance says after a moment, trailing his hand lightly over the stacks of records. 

 

“Well, my board was in there, that was the first thing.”

 

“Skateboard?”

 

“Yeah,” Keith sighs, he misses it already. It wasn’t his bike, but it got him out of Uncomfortable Freshman Moments™ quick enough. 

 

“Figures,” Lance mutters. “Figures you got a skateboard, on top of it all.”

 

“The hell does that mean?” Keith exclaims.  _ Woop. That was loud, calm down.  _

 

Lance’s shoulders jump and he laughs, “nothing, nothing! What else was in there?”

 

“My clothes, I guess. There was this shirt Shiro got me from when his start-up first took off and they got all their own merch. I was really proud of him, then.” 

 

“Sentimental,” Lance nods in understanding. 

 

“And uh….” he stops walking, tucks his hair behind his ears and feels kind of dumb for it, “my knife. My pocket knife.” 

 

“Sentimental?” Lance says again, gentle, like a question this time.

 

“Yeah,” Keith hums, he looks at his battered shoes. “My mom and dad had these personalized pocket knives made with their initials when they got married. One ended up with me and one with Shiro.” He fixates on a Frank Ocean album while he speaks, transfixed by the guy’s green hair. “And I lost mine.” 

 

“You didn’t lose it,” says Lance, dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder, “it was stolen. And I swear we’re gonna get it back.” 

 

Keith manages very difficultly to look up at him, catches his two-toned eyes, breathless for a second. 

 

“Thanks, Lance.” 

 

Lance beams, “don’t sweat it, mullet.” 

 

“Mullets are coming back,” Keith says, “Carly had one.” 

 

“You’re lucky I like her. And Bowie. And- yeah.”  _ And you _ , goes unspoken. But Lance nearly says it and he goes warm all over. 

 

Lance checks his phone, “Pidge time,” he declares, and they leave Sonic Boom. Keith looks back on it with warm appreciation in his chest. 

 

They follow Lance’s googlemaps to get to the restaurant because surprisingly he’s never been- that is- until they’re standing outside of- “Pitchers?” Lance cries, loathe and love all in one word.

 

“That doesn’t say-”

 

“Yeaaaah, Pitchers was just the nickname- I guess I just- I’ve never read the real name before, you know? It’s always been  _ ‘hey, wanna hit up Pitchers after finals’ _ or  _ ‘man, I got too lit at Pitchers last Friday’ _ ” 

 

They walk up the narrow stairs to the 2nd floor ‘restaurant’ which as it seems, is a shoddy old hang out spot for underage teens to get their fair share of shitty, cheap, SHITTY beer. And sometimes noodles. 

 

Keith scans the room, a little dismayed. There’s a kid (like not a  _ child _ , but a scruffy young person with a mop of honey blonde hair and cartoonish overalls) sitting at a table by the window, scarfing down noodles. There’s a- well there’s a pitcher of bubbly light gold really right in front of them.  

 

“Pidge!” Lance calls, he jogs over but pauses at the one woman working the kitchen, “two spicy ramen, please,” he asks her. There’s like two other customers minding their own business the other side of the room. 

 

The kid looks up, makes a hilarious face at Lance but stands up anyway and climbs him like a lizard when he reaches them. “Lance, ya goof!” they go, ruffling his hair. They hug tightly and then he puts them down, fixing their comically large but fashionable glasses. 

 

Keith walks over and they stare him down. “I’m Pidge,” they say before he can even open his mouth. “I know fake-straight Nyma, that’s who y’alls was talking about, right?”

 

“Fake-straight Nyma?” Keith blurts. 

 

“That white-dread-wearing binch is a lesbiannnnn,” Pidge sings, sliding back into their seat to continue slurping noodles. 

 

“Aren’t her and Rolo-”

 

“Beard,” Pidge says, wiping broth from their chin. “Beard as hell if I e’er saw one. That man ain’t straight.” 

 

“He talks like it,” Keith says, frowning. 

 

“Let’s just assume they’re both going through a lot of internalized homophobia, and like, some self-perpetuated externalized brand of it too, probably,” Pidge chugs the rest of their soup straight out the bowl. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I can get you her address for now.” 

 

“That’s all I need,” Keith says surely. “I’m Keith by the way,” he says awkwardly. 

  
“Yeah, I got that. Lance gave me a heads up,” they smirk at him. 

 

“Oh?” Keith turns to Lance, curious as heck and not sure if he should be flattered. 

 

Lance makes a ‘ _ i-dunno’ _ noise, leans back where he’s seated. He’s eyeing the pitcher of beer. “I don’t endorse this,” he says, pointing at it, staring hard at Pidge.

 

“Don’t play with me, son,” says Pidge, reaching into the backpack beside them and pulling out a heavy gamer laptop, “I know where that mouth been. Chuggin’ from Pitchers and then some, I could continue,” their grin is positively mischievous. Keith feels something debatable happening in his belly. He almost says  _ continue, please _ . They flip open the laptop. It glows to life with green under-lit keys. 

 

Pidge types fast. “I’m checking out her recent location-stamps. This shouldn’t be hard if she has fuckin’ Facebook.” 

 

Lance has gone quiet. Keith peeks at him and gets caught staring. Again.

 

Their ramen arrives. 

 

“I thought this was Chinatown, not Little Japan,” Keith jokes once the waitress leaves. 

 

“Yeah, well white people don’t care enough to tell the difference.” They start slurping, gradually help themselves to the watered down beer.

 

“Oh, shit,” says Pidge, they snort. Kinda laugh. Rub their hands down their face. Take off their glasses and blink. They close their laptop.

 

“What?” asks Keith with a mouthful of noodles. 

 

“Yo, this is the stupidest favor I’ve ever done you, Lance. You’re funny like that, you know?”

 

“What are you talking about?” Lance is smiling and kind of chuckling in anticipation despite the backwards compliment.

 

“She’s staying with Matt. She’s fuckin- she’s fuckin spending the next month bumming off my brother. Rolo too. I forgot. I deadass forgot they were crew. Matt told me he was having friends around. Him and Rolo graduated together. I forgot.” 

 

“You’re joking. You’re kid-ding,” Lance enunciates, he’s just about vibrating in his seat. “You’re fuckin’ with me!”

 

“I’m not,” they’re both laughing now, “I didn’t even- have to like, hack shit-!” 

 

They’ve got a fantastic giggle with snorts every two seconds, and that only makes Lance laugh harder, and then Keith sorta starts laughing too because they’re both so comical to watch and he snorts/sprays broth a little which is super gross but then everybody just starts laughing harder. It takes them a minute or two collectively to gather themselves.

 

“Guess we-” Lance tries to breathe slower, “Guess we’re goin’ to see the biggest stoner I ever met. Matt was my gateway drug, you know that? Matt ruined my childlike wonder for the world. Matt ruined it, Pidge,” he says emphatically. 

 

“Say hi to him for me. Let him know I will not be stopping by as long as white-dread-lesbian is on the premises.” 

 

“Bet,” says Lance. 

 

They finish up their noodles. Finish up the beer, and Lance slams fifteen bucks down on the table. “Learn good, kiddo,” he tells Pidge, “Make me proud.”

 

“Not difficult,” they retort, and compliment Keith’s pants as they go, waving them both off as they leave Pitchers. 

 

It’s just past noon now, and with the effects of a meal kicking in, Keith catches himself yawning once they’re back out on Spadina. 

 

“Doing alright there?” Lance snickers, “Matt is a 20 minute walk. We’re finally getting that knife back.” 

 

Keith nods, feels weight lifting off him at the idea. They start to walk back the way they came, and then Lance directs them off the main road, onto the big university campus that surrounds Chinatown. It’s old and filled with greenery and well kept. Probably some of the oldest buildings in the city. It feels like being in a little provincial town but they’re surrounded by skyscrapers. 

 

“I always wanted to go here when I was younger,” Lance says, “because of how fancy it looks.” 

 

“It’s the only school I really considered growing up, too.”

 

“Neither of us ended up here, eh? I guess that’s good.” 

 

“Hm?”

 

“We might not have met.” 

 

Keith doesn’t miss the fearful fluttering in his stomach from that, but he’s distracted by another point, “we would have been in the same school, though.”

 

“It has three campuses. And this one is  _ big _ .” Lance assures. “I might have seen you on the street one day and been too scared to talk to you. Then I would have missed my chance.” 

 

Keith’s frowns. He’s always known he was never approachable. “Why did you talk to me- in the On Route?” he asks.

 

Lance ponders. “I dunno. Maybe because I was going crazy with exhaustion. You looked freaked out, you know? The McDonald's guy was probably gonna ask you to leave.” 

 

Keith laughs softly at that. They start to cut through a park. “I noticed that. I was kind of hoping he’d come start something.” 

 

“Keith!” Lance chastises, “violence is never the answer.” 

 

“Maybe not for you. But once I have my knife back I’ll be unstoppable,” Keith smiles funnily. 

 

“Keith! You’re like that meme of the cat- the cat smugly facing down a blade, you know?” 

 

“Yeah,” Keith giggles, “I know that one.” 

 

They continue through the park. There’s college students hula hooping near some picnic tables, smoking on the lawn, reading on kindles, lying across one another’s stomachs. 

 

Keith wants to lie down. Nap a little bit. He’s jealous of them. Wants to lie across somebody’s stomach. He looks at Lance who’s watching the napping students as well. He wonders if he could be thinking something similar. 

 

“Hunk goes here. Matt does too,” he says offhandedly. “I kind of wanted to go here ‘cause he went here. For a bit.”

 

Keith feels like he doesn’t love the implications of that. 

 

“I had like, a dumb crush on him for a couple weeks, but then I remembered he was an idiot. Also, he smokes a lot more pot than I can handle,” he admits. 

 

“Are you-” Keith starts, he never knows how to ask this stuff. Maybe he meant like, a bro-crush? “Are you... LGBT?” he cringes at himself.

 

Lance’s smile is just a little coy. “I guess the closest thing is bi.” 

 

“Oh… cool. Cool.” Keith nods, voice far away. “I’m. Uh. gay.” 

 

Lance grins, “no kidding, mullet. The orange camo really had me fooled.” 

 

“Hey! What about this outfit makes it inherently gay?” he asks, actually confused and a little insulted. 

 

“I’m joking, I can’t tell from your stupid outfit. You could easily be one of those straight soundcloud douchebags I spend everyday avoiding in Montreal.” 

 

“So how could you tell?” 

 

“Oh look! Matt’s just up here,” Lance says abruptly, eyes lighting up a little fake, “man, I haven’t been here in eons.”

 

“We’re not done,” Keith huffs, reluctantly jogging up the steps to a beat-up townhouse duplex after him. 

 

Lance presses the buzzer for the 3rd listing. He presses it like five times after that in quick succession. 

 

_ “Hel- jesus christ- hello?” _

 

“Matt! It’s Lance McClain.” 

 

Lance’s last name is McClain? Keith hadn’t thought to ask. Or care. He cares now.

 

_ “Lance. Bro, I only know one Lance. You don’t gotta say your whole name.” _

 

“It’s fun like this. Feels professional. Like a high-end escort.”

 

_ “Okaaayyy, was there a reason you’re here?” _

 

“Can we talk to you upstairs?”

 

_ “We? You mean I gotta put on pants?” _

 

“Maaaaatt,” Lance urges. “Me and a friend. Dress to impress!”

 

Matt sighs, crackly through the speaker.  _ “C’mon up.” _ and the door buzzes open. 

 

They climb to the third floor. 

 

Matt is waiting in the doorway for them. He is wearing much too large boxers with Scooby-Doo on them, and nothing else, he is the skinniest man Keith has ever seen. The boxers are tied tighter with a hair-elastic at his hip.

 

“You really aren’t gonna….put on pants?” Lance asks as he cautiously embraces him, for easily no longer than two seconds.

 

“Oh, I did, Lance. Dress to impress,” Matt emphasizes. He has the same face and hair as Pidge, but a raspier, higher voice and deep-set cheekbones. “What’s your business here?”

 

“Nyma Beezer,” Lance says.

 

“She doesn’t swing that way,” says Matt, he lets them into the apartment after a minute of awkward doorway loitering.

 

“Not what I meant,” Lance’s tan face darkens. 

 

“What do you want Nyma for? Weed? I’m hurt, Lance,” Matt collapses on the sofa like it took all the effort in the world to get up off it. “I thought we were forever,” he laments.

 

The apartment is actually kinda sweet. There’s a gaming system set up and some suspicious paraphernalia scattered about, but otherwise it looks like a little old grandma could be the sole resident of the place. Nice art on the walls, doilies and shit. 

 

“Actually, my friend Keith here needs her. Is she in?” 

 

“Nyma’s out all day until tomorrow. Her and Rolo just stopped by this morning to sleep for a little while. Left about an hour ago.” 

 

“Shit,” Keith breathes, defeat washing over him.

 

“She’s dealing at Hunk’s set tonight though, I assume you’re going to that?” 

 

“Oh man, really? Meant to be, Keith,” Lance nudges him with his elbow, smiling bright. “Guess I’m seeing you dance, after all.”

 

“Don’t be so sure,” Keith says, but his hope is renewed. 

 

“What she do to you?” Matt asks Keith, he looks him up and down. Keith feels like his outfit is being quietly critiqued again, but doesn’t mind as much from the guy in solely Scooby-Doo merchandise. 

 

“She left me in a highway rest stop and drove off with my life’s most meaningful possessions.”

 

“Skateboard and a t-shirt,” Lance adds, grinning.

 

“Sounds like her,” Matt chuckles but he doesn’t make fun past that. Keith feels weirdly heart-warmed that Lance didn’t mention his knife. 

 

“Well, like, the show isn’t for a few hours, you know? Do you guys want to hang out here until then?”

 

Lance looks at Keith, shrugs. “We could nap? I haven’t slept- I mean I don’t think- I don’t think it would hurt, right?” 

 

Keith is already nodding. “I’m so fucking tired,” he admits, and he really takes in the dark circles beneath Lance’s alien eyes, no doubt his mirrored ones are much worse. 

 

“Sleep out here if you want,” Matt says, pushing himself up off the couch again and disappearing down the hall. “My room is a shithole, you don’t wanna see it. I can wake you guys up and we’ll grab a bite before the show, sound good?”

 

“Sounds great, thanks Matt,” Lance calls after him, and he himself drops dramatically onto the couch. Keith sits next to him, sinks back into the cushions and sighs.

 

“Sorry,” Lance murmurs. “I thought she’d be here.”

 

“It’s okay.” and Keith finds that it really is. “Let’s just… let’s sleep. We know where they’re gonna be.” 

 

“I’ll take the floor,” Lance says good-naturedly, scooping up a pillow and setting it down.    
  
“Oh,” Keith says sorta dumbly. “Uh. I mean, if you want, you can sleep that end and I’ll go-” he points to the other end. “I don’t mind,” he tries his best to make it come out sincere. He really, really doesn’t mind, but he doesn’t want his nerves to come off like he’s anxious because of physical contact and not...the other reason. Actually, he doesn’t want his nerves to show at all. 

 

“You sure? The sofa  _ is _ definitely comfier…” Lance considers.

 

“It’s fine. Really, Lance,” he says. 

 

“Alright,” Lance concedes, and he lets Keith tuck himself up against the back of the couch first before he stretches out next to him, head the other end. His legs stick out off the arm while Keith’s feet just rest on it. 

 

They get comfy. It takes a minute of shifting, carefully- as to not be invasive, but eventually they get there. It’s not too hot in the apartment. It’s still sunny but Keith is definitely too tired to let it get in the way.

 

“What did you mean, before?” he asks quietly. 

 

“Huh?”

 

“How could you tell I was gay?” his heart beats a little faster and it’s a wild thing to feel when he’s never been this tired in his life. 

 

“I couldn’t  _ really _ tell, Keith,” Lance yawns. “I guess…” he trails off. 

 

Keith’s eyes droop. 

 

“I guess I just hoped,” Lance sighs, turns a bit on his side, and by the time Keith has shot up to stare at him with wide, dark eyes, he is fast asleep, or possibly feigning it.

 

 

* * *

 

So, that was definitely a stupid thing to say, he realizes, around five minutes after Matt jostles him out of his nap and tells him to “wake up the cutie”, when said cutie is blinking sleep out of his eyes and looking around like a fluffy, disoriented cat. 

 

Five minutes later, it seems, that the cutie doesn’t remember. Or hopefully,  _ hopefully _ he just didn’t realize, or- or- or it doesn’t matter. Keith hasn’t said anything. 

 

“Will you guys be ready to go in like, ten?” Matt asks around a mouthful of dry granola. Heathen. 

 

“It’s already that late?” Lance asks, checking his phone. His eyes bug. “You let us sleep for FIVE hours Matt?!” that really wakes Keith up. 

 

“We must have been tired,” Keith yawns that final post-nap yawn. Lance watches him, captivated. Snaps out of it. 

 

“How are we getting there? Your bicycle is weak and frail and can not carry two hitchhikers like you may think,” Lance narrows his eyes at Matt, an untold story implied. 

 

“Uber,” Matt rolls his eyes. “I got a coupon.”

 

“Oh, sick,” Lance relaxes. 

 

They take a few minutes to collect themselves, Lance washes his face in the bathroom, feels inadequate for neglecting his skincare routine for so long. 

 

Matt orders the Uber and they hop down the stairs onto the front curb. Matt pulls out a joint and lights it. Wordlessly offers it to Keith. 

 

“Uh, no thanks,” Keith says .

 

Matt tries to shove it into Lance’s hand. 

 

“I’m good, really,” Lance says. 

 

“Are you kidding? You’re always down. I can’t smoke this all alone.” 

 

“Gotta stay vigilant, we’re banking on a dramatic confrontation tonight, dude.” He bumps Keith’s shoulder. He really, really likes that Keith seems to be more and more comfortable with the friendly contact. Really likes that he never seemed to have a problem from the beginning.

 

“God. Fine.  _ God _ ,” Matt huffs, he takes a couple forced drags before delicately putting it out and tucking it into the breast pocket of his questionably patterned button up. Which isn’t even buttoned up. 

 

The Uber thankfully pulls up not a moment later and they all clamber in. Matt immediately strikes up a conversation with the driver and Lance tells Keith how that is the defining difference between him and his younger sibling- Social agenda. 

 

As they drive, Keith clearly realizes they’re practically retracing their steps, though without cutting across a quad. “Are we going back?” he asks, brow furrowed. 

 

“Sort of. Not really, but yeah,” Lance says. “The venue is in Kensington Market. It’s just west of Chinatown. It’s fun at night. I think you’ll like it.” 

 

“I knew about Kensington Market growing up,” Keith says, he’s pleased with himself. “But… I never went.” 

 

“First time for everything,” Lance smiles. “We’ll make this a good experience, whatever happens.”

 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, he seems determined. “We will.” 

 

Matt finishes up his friendly debate with their driver on the legalization of marijuana right when they stop at the edge of the market. Often, the streets are too narrow and overrun with people to quickly navigate in a car. 

 

They all climb out and Matt blows a kiss to the driver, yells, “five stars, man!” as he zooms off, “drive safe!”

 

Lance stretches his arms over his head and says, “I went to a really shitty New Year’s party here once, but it was okay because we had tremendous shawarma afterwards,” he takes a deep breath. “Smells like shawarma.” 

 

They decide on shawarma in the end, eat it quickly and with passion, and when they head deeper into Kensington the sun has begun to dip below the horizon, casting the early evening in dusky blue and pink light. 

 

Keith rubs his arms, Lance takes delight in this, unties his hoodie from around his waist. “Here, man,” he offers, draping it around his shoulders. 

 

“Thanks,” Keith mutters, pulling it over his head and shrugging his arms through the sleeves. The bright blue of it clashes wonderfully with his stupid orange pants. 

 

“No worries. I understand, gotta preserve the look even if it means being chilly,” he winks. 

 

“I don’t think you understand at all,” Keith scoffs. 

 

Matt walks ahead of them with a weird lilt to his step, whistling the intro tune to Teen Titans. It sounds spooky and wafts around them like a scent. 

 

They saunter up to a side alley, slip down it, and there’s a metal door wide open with red and purple light beaming from inside all across the concrete path. There’s a hippy here or there- a self-proclaimed art-student or two chain smoking together. 

 

“ID?” says the bouncer, all in black, kind of resembles Shiro’s build, Lance thinks. 

 

Luckily, the three of them have ID on them, real luckily that Keith’s license was in his pocket and not his long gone wallet, but then the bouncer asks for $10 cover. 

 

“Shit, I’m out of cash,” Lance curses. 

 

“Yo, no, no, wait,” Matt says, waving his hands calmly, a  _ chill out _ gesture in them. “Is there a list?” he asks the bouncer. “Can you check for Matt Holt? Lance McClain?” 

 

The Bouncer pulls his phone out, scrolls for a minute. “Yeah, you two are good to go. Would you be on here?” he asks Keith. 

 

Keith shrugs, looks smaller than before. “Probably not.”

 

“It would just be Keith, nothing else- just under Keith,” Lance emphasizes. 

 

The bouncer scrolls down. He scrolls back up and starts at the top of the list again.

 

“Yep. Just Keith. You’re good. Better not be any more Just Keith’s at my door.” 

 

It’s possibly a joke but the man is Not Laughing, so they say thanks and shuffle inside where the muffled boom of bass and techno becomes much more exposed. Matt wanders off immediately.

 

“Hunk’s a good buddy. He wouldn’t forget you in a day,” Lance says to Keith, louder over the music. Keith nods but Lance can tell he’s already scanning the room- for Nyma. They’ve spent nearly a whole day leading up to this. 

 

Nearly a whole day  _ together _ . 

 

Lance watches Keith search, standing on his toes and gazing over people’s shoulders. What happens when he finds her-  _ if _ he gets his stuff back? That’ll be good, Lance should think. But he wonders what he’ll say when all is done and Keith doesn’t need his help anymore. 

 

“I know they take plastic here. I’m gonna get a drink. Do you want a drink?” he asks. 

 

“Uh, yeah okay,” Keith is still looking around. “That sounds good. Beer is fine.” he assures.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Lance says but he doesn’t know if Keith catches it. People are really starting to pour in. Lance takes pride in his best friend’s success. He knows a lot of them are here for Hunk. There’s still a few minutes before his set begins. 

 

He sidles up to the bar as one sidles, and orders a couple of the cheapest beers, deciding not to start a tab. 

 

Thank god for Keith’s 100% not camouflaging camo pants, because he’s relatively easy to find again. 

 

Lance presses the cool drink into his hand and chances an arm around his shoulder so he can take them deeper into the collecting crowd. This gets Keith’s attention back to him. 

 

“Where are we-”

 

“I just want to show you a few minutes of what Hunk is like up there,” Lance says, and he really does. He wants Keith to get his stuff back  _ soon- _ honestly- but he’ll probably only have him for a little while longer. He’s determined to cherish it. 

 

* * *

 

Keith steels himself and gives in, shuffles closer if possible as the people become more dense. Lance spots the same pair of orange pants somewhere else, points them out to him and snorts. 

 

Everybody is nodding along to background music, and then collectively distracted- the music stops and some THX movie shit gets them losing their minds. Lance starts clapping and whooping along. 

 

Keith can only sip his drink. Everything goes dark for a moment. Heavy, heavy bass cuts in. He can feel Lance nodding along to it already. Already immersed in the rhythm. He remembers what Lance said earlier, at Sonic Boom. About letting music overtake you. 

 

The lights flash back on, all at once and his brain sarcastically goes  _ “warn for fuckin’ epilepsy, guys”  _ before he notices Hunk is there! On the stage! Beaming out at everybody and lit up in rainbows of color. And suddenly the empty turntables and plethora of tech he will never understand is being put to use! Hunk has a simple pair of headphones around his neck on which there must be a mic, because he asks how everybody is doing this fine evening and Keith hears it all around them. 

 

Lance whoops with enthusiasm, cheers for his friend, and they’re close to the front now. Close enough to the stage that only a couple rows remain in between. 

 

Hunk drops a beat on top of the bass, and  _ everybody _ around them starts dancing. Keith just about crushes the solo cup in his hand. 

 

But Lance- he can tell Keith isn’t reacting like everybody else. He drops his head down to Keith’s eye level and asks, “okay?” gesturing between them, still nodding along the rhythm, he moves closer, and his eyes are pretty much asking  _ ‘alright if I touch?’  _

 

Keith tosses the rest of his drink back and nods. His heart is going a mile a minute.  He can’t remember the last time it raced so much in one day. Martial arts tournament when he broke that kid’s nose? Who fuckin’ knows, or cares, because Lance loops an arm around his waist, pulls him in. Keith starts to move to the exact same beat without realizing it. 

 

Lance smiles at him and encourages him to bring his arms up, up around his neck, which is  _ reeaaaal _ great because who ever even knows what to do with their hands at a concert.

 

He’s still a little overwhelmed, because his borrowed hoodie smells like Lance- nondescript deodorant and something else, and Lance smells like Lance too, and he looks so beautiful illuminated in artificial color, Keith thinks. His blue eye is light enough that it just absorbs every change. One minute it’s purple, and then silver or red. Keith can’t keep up. He doesn’t think he needs to. He starts to feel his heart settle. He’s starting to feel real safe here, in these arms.

 

Once Lance see’s that he’s relaxing, he seems to think it’d be funny to bust out some slightly more ridiculous moves, and Keith blushes and laughs as Lance twirls his hips and shimmies and grinds on him a little bit. Not too much to be weird but like, the right amount. He was right in Sonic Boom, people do watch him, and Keith knows it’s because he’s lithe and fluid and the music was made for his body to look good, even if he’s wearing a dumb snapback and khaki shorts as he dances. 

 

Keith actually has fun, for however long they stay there together, he’s never been more comfortable being touched by someone he hasn’t known more than 24 hours. He’s never felt so  _ known _ . 

 

It’s gotta come to an end at some point, it always does. 

 

It’s just fucking unfair that he notices oily blonde dreads over Lance’s shoulder the moment something in his gaze changes, and they’re both leaning closer and closer. 

 

He jerks away. Lance looks horrified for a moment, he starts to apologize, but Keith shakes his head and says “NYMA” as loud as he can over the music, hoping that Lance hears it because he just isn’t gonna wait and dodges around him- runs through the crowd- zeros in on those stupid bangles and the stupid harem pants and shouts again-

 

“NYMA!” 

 

She looks at him. She gapes. She slams her drink on the bar counter and RUNS out of the venue. 

 

Keith doesn’t even have to stop for a breath. He’s getting his board back. He books it past the bouncer. He’s getting that dumb t-shirt. He skids around a corner- and she’s faster than he expected. But they’re both in stupid pants, so they’re both slower than their full potential- 

 

And he’s getting his fuckin’ knife back. 

 

“KEITH!” he hears from behind him, he can’t afford to look back but he knows its Lance. “WAIT UP!” 

 

Lance catches up to him real fast,  _ those legs _ , and Nyma ducks down another alley again. He’s positive she knows the market far better than him, even with all the stores and stalls closed up for the night. It’s an advantage of hers that makes him run  _ faster _ .

“Nah- nah -no,” Lance rushes, “this way,” he promises, tugging Keith back up the street, behind a couple buildings, down a narrow lane- and then they burst out from behind a grocers, and Nyma  _ SLAMS _ into Keith, sending them both down to the ground.    
  
“Bleugh,” she groans, looking between him and Lance frantically, before scrambling back up and tearing off again. Keith’s gloves and palms are scraped up a little, and Lance helps him up by the elbows considerately. 

 

“You still wanna-”

 

“Of course,” Keith practically heaves, breaking back into a sprint. 

 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t even have to catch her. They find her vomiting at the corner of a small water park. The street is empty and dark, sparsely lit by strings of fairy lights. They’re there to perpetuate the mysticism and magic of the neighborhood. He knows that. He knows its a tourist trap. 

 

“Nyma,” he groans, slowing to a jog. “You fucked up my gloves.” 

 

“Sorry Keith,” she says sincerely, between retches. He almost reaches out to rub her back but then he remembers.  _ Remembers _ .

 

“I yield- I give up- I fuckin’ yield,” she coughs out, clearing her throat. Collapsing onto the sidewalk in a starfish. “What do you want?” she asks, finality and frustration in her tone.

 

“Are you joking?” he scoffs, he’s so mad. “I want my SHIT back Nyma!” 

 

Lance stands politely to the side, huffing quietly.

 

“Huh?” Nyma says. 

 

“What do you mean ‘huh’?!” he mocks, it sounds way uglier than how she proposed it.

 

“I mean  _ ‘huh’ _ .”

 

“When you ditched me in rural fucking Ontario at five o’clock this morning you took off with all of my stuff! All the crap I was bring back with me for the next four months of my life!” 

 

Nyma breathes, coughs again. She makes a horrible gurgling noise that makes him think she’s gonna throw up again. “Is that all? Shit, I had no idea it was still in the van. I thought you were gonna like, break my nose.” 

 

“You- what? You didn’t sell it or- or-”

 

“What is it, like a skateboard?” she laughs, it comes out tinkly and sweet like bells in contrast to her strange and dusty exterior. 

 

“Jesus. What even happened? Why did you leave him there?” Lance cuts in, clearly impatient.

 

“Rolo was-” she sighed, “he was-”

 

“Don’t just blame Rolo ‘cause you don’t want to get in shit,” Keith bites.

 

“I’m not! I’m not. He was really in a bad mood. I think because he hadn’t smoked all night, and you took a while in the bathroom- I dunno. He got frustrated. I swear I told him it was a dick move.” 

 

“Wow,” Keith exhales. “Thanks Nyma. Made a world of difference.” 

 

She stares guiltily at the ground. “I probably still have your shit,” she sighs. “We can- if you want it now-”

 

“Of course I want it now,” he snaps. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, chill. Help me up,” she reaches out both hands and for some reason, Keith takes one and Lance takes the other, because neither can just let a drunk girl be a stupid ass drunk girl in the street in the dark without helping. 

 

“I really didn’t mean to create a bad energy here, Keith,” she says as they’re walking back to the venue. “Actually,” she says, “I think Rolo was prolly trying to smash and it was just going right over your head. He hasn’t been gay for that long.” 

 

Keith tries not to scoff.

 

They reach the 14A Mystery Machine. The one from the highway that morning, early, early that morning. They all stare at it for a minute.

 

“Nyma,” Lance says, which is weirdly confrontational because they’ve never spoken before in their lives, “do us all a favor. Shave your fuckin’ head and bone a girl.” 

 

It sits in the air between the three of them, Keith savors it like a fine wine. 

 

“Whatever, man,” she mumbles, unlatching the back of the van, pulling the door open. 

 

Keith’s heart swells at the sight. His board sits atop his boring black duffel back. Exactly where he left it amidst all the trash and rolled up hammocks and 420 tapestries. He climbs in for the last time and drags it all out, shrugging the strap of the bag over his shoulder and tucking his skateboard under his arm. While it has only been a day, it felt like years he’s been apart from the stuff. 

 

“See you never again,” he says to Nyma. “I’ll get a ride back to Quebec with somebody else.” Lance doesn’t miss how Keith’s stare flies to him, just resting a second. 

 

“Sorry Keith,” she says again, quietly. “Have a good summer. Let me know if you need kush,” she says like she didn’t hear a word he just said. 

 

Him and Lance head back over to the venue. The bouncer lets them in wordlessly, though he eyes Keith’s bag suspiciously. 

 

“I’m only staying for a few minutes,” he tells him. 

 

Lance doesn’t bother to hide how his shoulders drop. He checks his phone. “It’s 12:30,” he tells Keith. Past midnight. 

 

“I should probably… go home then,” he says. They stand closer to the bar than before. “I dragged you all over Toronto with me… time to give you a break, right,”  he says it like a joke but it feels heavy.

 

“You weren’t a burden... I told you,” Lance watches him. “I wanted to.” 

 

Before Keith can respond, arms swoop around Lance’s waist. They both hear “Babyyyy!” over the music. Shay peaks through Lance’s arm, lips a pretty rouge-painted smile, dark skin covered in glitter.

 

“Hey baby!” Lance replies, bringing her around to hug her, but he’s tired from running and his enthusiasm is weaker.

 

“Keith, honey! I’m so glad you came,” she says, pecking his cheek. 

 

“I was just leaving,” he admits.

 

“No, what!” she pouts, “the afterparty!” she exclaims, “you must!” 

 

Hunk appears suddenly, he squeezes him and Lance in identical hugs. Keith hadn’t even realized his set was over. Hunk notices Keith’s stuff.

 

“Oh, a skateboard. That makes sense,” he nods sagely, looks between Lance and Keith. Keith is baffled again by the significance of his board.

 

“Afterparty?” he adds, “Come celebrate with us!” he expression is emotional and pleading.

 

Then- Pidge is there (Pidge is there? How? A child!) and Matt too, looming over them. “Afterparty?” they ask in creepy sibling synchronization. 

 

Keith realizes, belatedly, that they are all looking at him, and he feels something so fond and genuine he doesn’t even recognize it. 

 

“Okay,” he concedes, never happier in his life to lose a battle. Everybody exclaims their excitement, Lance steps closer again, slings an arm around his shoulders. He leans into it.

 

“Where is it?” he asks, like it matters, like he knows where anything is in this city.

 

“Oh, uh, good question,” Hunk scratches the back of his neck, “we didn’t plan that one out too good.”

 

Everybody seems at a loss once again, but Keith- bless his heart- he’s just so  _ full _ of affection and hope because all these people remembered him and  _ want _ him to stay and there’s a warm arm holding him close to a warmer person- Keith says, 

 

“I live pretty close, I think. We can have it at mine.”

 

“Keith,” Lance says seriously, “your apartment is  _ nice _ .”

 

“So are you,” he replies. He’s overwhelmed with some kind of feeling, and it’s certainly not bad. “All of you.” 

 

“Imma need an address, man,” says Matt, “there’s a few more people tagging along,” he pulls out his phone.

 

“Sure,” Keith says easily, more than ready to keep the night alive just a little bit longer.

 

* * *

 

Hunk and Shay offer to Uber Keith and Lance back to the condo. Pidge and Matt stick around the venue for a hot minute, Matt saying he’s gotta wrap up a few ‘business transactions’. 

 

Keith seems elated, and Lance feels so much affection for the boy he doesn’t know what to do with it. Keith has his stuff back. He has his stuff back and he wants Lance to stick around, even if it’s just for a couple more hours. 

 

The four of them take the elevator up from the ground floor, and the more floors they cover the more excited Hunk and Shay get, counting them like children. 

 

“Twenty three!” they cry out when they finally step out onto Keith’s floor. Lance is wildly excited for them to see the view. Hunk was often the one he complained to when all their high school classmates were partying it up at classy downtown condos and snapping the whole thing. 

 

Keith opens the door again and they all tumble in, and suddenly it’s time for everyone to sober up. 

 

Shiro is hangin’ out in his living room, and there’s some guys in suits, and a couple really pretty professional looking ladies, and some behind the scenes lookin’ I.T. guys. They’ve all got like, wine and whiskey and shit. 

 

“Uhhhhhh,” says Keith, he stares at his brother. His brother stares back. “Shiro,” he continues, “you remember Lance,” Lance is trying to hide himself behind the other three. 

 

“‘Sup Shiro,” he squeaks, and he feels like, sixteen and powerless again. 

 

“Hey, Lance,” Shiro smiles. “Looks like you guys had a similar idea to us, huh?” 

 

“Honestly, I forgot Shiro, I’m sorry. But I invited some people over- they’re- they’re really cool, this is Hunk and Shay, they’re really nice-”

 

“Keith,” Shiro stands up and walks over, the other people in the room go back to talking amongst themselves. “It’s fine, nobody here can fire me,” he grins. 

 

Lance nearly laughs. Keith relaxes significantly. 

 

“Invite whoever you want. Put away the fragile shit, whatever. I’m glad you’re home. I’m glad you made friends at school.” 

 

“Oh,” Keith says. “Yeah. They’re not from school.” 

 

Shiro looks at Lance, “you’re not from school?” he reiterates, lost.

 

“Not exactly,” Lance shrugs. He’s playing through his head exactly how it’s going to sound if he has to tell the man.  _ I found your younger brother alone at a highway rest stop and invited him into my car. Also it was dark and 5 A.M. _

 

“I’ll tell you later,” Keith says. 

 

“Oh- okay,” Shiro agrees, brow furrowed, but he can’t dispute because they didn’t close the door behind them, and Matt struts right in like he owns the place.    
  


“Yo, Shiro,” he says, “you live here?”

 

“Matt?” says Shiro, bewildered. 

 

“Shiro?!” Matt mocks, not very serious at all. 

 

“I don’t… you know each other?” Keith asks. 

 

“Matt and I were in high school together.. He was really....” Shiro struggles to find the words, “Calming to be around after mom and dad died.” 

 

_ Oh, that makes sense,  _ Lance thinks. OR- no.  _ Died? _

 

“Huh,” says Keith. “You never brought him around.” 

 

“Well we were going through a lot- we fell out of touch- I mean, you remember, well- besides the point,” Shiro sighs. “It’s good to see you again, man,” he says to Matt, who looks at him with renewed mirth in his eyes and offers a very professional hand to shake. Shiro hugs him. 

 

“Aw,” says Lance, always a sucker for a good reuniting story. 

 

“So Shirooo,” Matt says as he pulls back. “I brought some people round. I honestly wouldn’t have invited so many if I knew this was your place….”

 

“It’s fine, man, really, come on in,” Shiro insists, and so they do. Hunk, Shay, Matt, and Pidge, and forty or so odd people. Shiro’s employees seem immediately overwhelmed, but they have no room to voice it because Matt claims the aux and EDM starts blaring. Shiro looks the happiest he has since Lance met him that morning. 

 

Matt whips out his breast pocket joint and Shiro looks slightly less happy, but ultimately doesn’t interfere. 

 

Everybody goes about the room seeming to know exactly what they’re doing, except for Keith and Lance. 

 

“Um, I’m gonna.. Put these away. And lock my bedroom door.” Keith lifts his board and bag. 

 

“Sure,” Lance smiles, “I’ll be here.”

 

Keith nods slow as he swerves some people and walks down the dark hall. The apartment is dim now. It feels a whole lot smaller.

 

Lance waits until he sees Keith disappear through a door and then finds Hunk, Shay, and Pidge in the throng of people. 

 

“So I found a perfectly good Backwoods on the ground outside CircleK yesterday night, feels too blessed that we have ourselves a happening impromptu function here in this condo,” Hunk says, producing the sealed packaging for the cigar brand and a grinder. “Who’s down to get down?” 

 

Several people around them catch sight of the Backwoods and are suddenly part of the tight group. They speak their support. Matt pops over. 

 

“It’s meant to be,” he says, and then, “yo, Shiroooo- wanna throw it back?” 

 

Shiro slips over to them, “I don’t really smoke anymore, Matt.” Matt slings a gangly arm around his shoulder. More like neck, because he absolutely cannot reach the entire span of Shiro’s broad back. 

  
“Only on weekends, gotcha. Count us in, boys.” 

 

Hunk leads them over to the sofa where some of Shiro’s business friends (employees?) are gingerly rested, and move to make room as soon as they see the group approaching. Shiro calms them like a herd of deer, “guys, guys, it’s fine. These are my little brother’s friends. Lance and…” he’s at a loss for the rest of them, shrugs apologetically. They all introduce themselves and Hunk gestures to the backwoods. 

 

“Blunt?” he implores, and god does this man know how to make friends. Shiro’s employees don’t exactly say no, but they look to their boss first before saying yes. 

 

“Ah, what the hell,” he says, leaning back on the couch. Matt makes a strong noise of agreement and leans back too, kinda close actually, Lance notices, for somebody who doesn’t usually make physical contact his daily business. 

 

Hunk gets to work rolling like the pro he is, and then Pidge pulls out a juul and starts doing smoke rings for a couple minutes. They get to know Shiro and his people by convincing them to vape out of a teapot. It’s hilarious and Lance takes a few stealthy pics on his phone to show Keith later. Then somebody finds doritos in the cupboard and Lance has to show them his personal highschool party trick. He starts lighting them on fire and popping them in his mouth like it’s nothing. Shiro looks lost on this and Lance suddenly regrets his behavior but then Keith appears, creating the most wonderfully awkward buffer Lance has ever needed.

 

“Some guys hotboxed your closet, and they’re both wearing the same Kappa sweatpants,” he says offhandedly to Shiro, sitting next to Lance ( _ nice _ ) and Shiro rubs his organic hand down his face. 

 

“As long as we get to the foretold blunt soon I don’t think I care,” he sighs. 

 

“No need to wait, this honey’s ready to go,” says Hunk, standing slowly, cradling the backwoods in a loosely closed fist. 

 

Everybody starts to baby-chain through the crowd for the balcony, Shay leading the way and Lance holding up the rear. Right before he shuts the screen door behind them, everybody hears a pronounced, “yo, who the  _ fuck  _ has the aux right now?”

“Me!” somebody he thankfully doesn’t recognize replies.

“Look bro, I’m sorry but this is bad music.” 

Lance lets the door close on the commotion, and everybody arranges themselves into a circle with a little weird overlap here or there.

 

Hunk does the honors, lighting up and taking a hearty pull. He eventually passes left to Matt who makes it look just as easy despite his small frame. Matt passes to Shiro and whispers something to him which prompts Shiro to shove him lightly. Lance thinks maybe that’s a little gay? _ That’s a little gay, right?  _

 

Shiro coughs a little on the exhale and Matt starts laughing, so that’s probably what the whispering was about. As the blunt circles, one of Matt’s vague acquaintances pulls out a water bottle and a bottle of rum. He takes a swig from both and passes the rum on, but keeps the water. 

 

Once the blunt gets to Lance it’s about a third through. He takes a couple hits in succession, passes it delicately to Keith. It’s starting to get a little damp on the end the gross way blunts do. 

Keith takes a very, very short hit. Probably because this is his house and he wants to stay vigilant. Lance understands, but he kinda wants to see Keith fried, just a little. 

 

“Hey, can I have some of that water?” Keith asks Matt’s friend. 

 

“Sure, it uh, it has molly in it though.” 

 

“Oh,” Keith says, the same time Shiro goes, “No.” 

 

Lance laughs. “I can go get you a glass?” He offers. 

 

“That’s okay,” Keith says, and instead he pries the rum out of Shiro’s hand and takes a shot, immediately pressing it back into somebody else’s hands.

 

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Shay says, and with little delay tips one back. Everybody jokingly acts about as much the same after that.

 

Gradually the blunt reaches its stubby end after a couple rounds.    
  


“Anyone wanna wu-tang the roach?” Hunk asks.

 

“Oh, sure,” says Matt, eyes lighting up, but Shiro and Pidge physically restrain him from swallowing the smokey stump. 

 

Everybody slowly starts to trickle back inside after that, and the molly water leaves and the rum leaves, but Lance wraps his hand around Keith’s wrist and gestures for him to stay a while.

 

They crouch and sit with their legs between the rails again, closer this time around. Their thighs brush. 

 

Lance thinks back to that morning, hardly knowing Keith but  _ wanting _ to. Wanting to help him. Wanting to maybe hold his hand. Eating strawberries and drinking coffee. He wants more of that. All summer. The idea frightens him.

 

Keith is still in his hoodie. It makes his heart ache. 

 

“So, we got your stuff back,” he says, “I’m glad.” He’s just a little buzzed and maybe it shows.

 

“Me too. I wouldn’t have- I’d probably still be in an On Route if it wasn’t for you,” Keith says, it sounds reverent. “You know,” Keith continues, “you said this morning- you said Hunk knows everybody in the city, that he’d know someone who could help. But I think that’s you, Lance,” it comes out all rushed, “these people love you so much. They seem to wanna know you forever.” 

 

Lance flushes, opens his mouth to speak, but for the first time in a while nothing comes out. 

 

“You have roots here that...that you appreciate every day. It makes me…” he trails off. The wind rustles his hair a lot gentler than it did in the morning. 

 

“Makes you what?” Lance smiles. 

 

“I…” his face scrunches. “It makes me wanna know you forever, too..?” he says it so soft, and so unsure Lance can see it took all his confidence at once to say it. Lance admires him for it. 

 

“Keith,” he says, “I-” he looks at the city in the dark. It glows. He loves this city. He looks back to Keith, he tries not to smile so wide, “Look, can we, could we leave? I want to show you one last part of Toronto. If that’s okay. If you want.”

 

Keith beams, “I want that. You ever rode a motorbike before?” 

 

“Never!” Lance is ecstatic, energy buzzing through his fingers to his toes. “C’mon,” He checks his phone, it’s 3 A.M. in the morning. “Let’s go. We’re hitting the beach.” 

 

They slip back inside together and it seems that music has stopped blaring, and some guy neither of them knows is standing on the coffee table performing what sounds like… his own rap. Nobody’s really feeling it. Lance thinks now is a better time than any to head out, but his bladder says otherwise. 

 

“I’m just gonna run to the washroom real quick,” he tells Keith, shuffling through the party down the hall.

 

The bathroom door is ajar and the light is on so he throws it open without a care in the world, and finds like 5 people crammed in the space, 4 of which are waiting for the other to do his line off the counter. 

 

“Oh,” Lance says. “Hey, could you guys, like, not do coke here? This is my buddy’s place, they’re not really cool with that.”

 

Everybody looks up with him, it creates a generally aloof atmosphere. 

 

“Also I gotta piss,” he adds. 

 

They all kinda go ‘mm okay’ and start to head out. “Really don’t do coke in this apartment!” he calls down the hallway after them. 

 

He finally closes the door and locks it, turns to find like 3 random iphones on the counter that drunk people must keep forgetting. Decides to leave them be.

 

After he finally gets to pee (and gets OnRoute Deja Vu), Lance is heading back towards the center of the party when his pocket starts to buzz. He pulls out his phone and caller ID gives him a very clear Matthew Holt. Lance rolls his eyes and answers.

 

“Hi, Matt,” he says.

 

_ “Lance, thank god. I lost my portable speaker.”  _

 

Lance walks back out into the living room, Matt is on the sofa with Shiro speaking intensely into his phone. 

 

“Where did you last see it?” Lance sighs, resigning himself to helping Matthew Holt not lose his mind before he can take the boy of his dreams to the beach. 

 

_ “I can’t remember. I neeeeeed you to help me loooooook for it.” _

 

“I need you to really think where you last saw it,” Lance emphasizes, hanging up and sitting down next to Matt. 

 

“He hung up on me,” Matt says to Shiro, frowning down at his phone, and then “Oh hi, Lance.” 

 

“So?” Lance asks.

 

“Maybe Shiro’s room?” Matt shrugs halfheartedly. 

 

“Okay, I’m gonna look in there, you look in here.” Lance gets back up again, spots Keith and explains briefly. “Sorry,” he says, “I wanna get us outta here.” 

 

“Don’t worry,” says Keith, “I think the night might wait for us.” Which doesn’t really make sense but Lance finds himself beaming anyway, and he brings Keith with him to look for the speaker because it’ll be better with him there. 

 

There’s seven people on Shiro’s neatly made bed hanging out, all in various states of consciousness, piled over one another. Two of them are having what seems like a kind of emotional conversation when they walk in so Lance tries to be quick, checking around the mattress and dresser and hotboxed closet quickly. They can’t find Matt’s speaker but catch the tail end of the bed therapy session, “yeah man that sucks… well I think blunts 2.0 are happening so good talk,” before they head out. 

 

Lance comes back to the living room empty handed, see’s Matt’s sad face (he has not moved from the sofa, and seems to be getting closer to Shiro’s lap every time Lance checks them), and exasperatedly makes one last sweep over the balcony.

 

The speaker is there of all places, about halfway off the concrete, seconds away from plummeting to its doom. Lance is just about to tell Matt,  _ hey you really owe me for this one _ , when he heads back inside, but Matt and Shiro are entirely preoccupied when he looks up. With each other’s mouths. 

 

“Jesus,” Lance laughs instead, dropping the speaker next to them on the sofa and going to find Keith who looks like he’s just seen a ghost. 

 

“I think it’s time we finally get out of here, yeah?” Lance says, pressing his hand to Keith’s back and directing them to the door. 

 

* * *

 

They finally slip out unnoticed, but Keith wants to give Shiro some peace of mind so he texts him he’ll be back in a few hours and that he’s sober now. Because he really, really is after seeing Shiro and...yeah. Keith prays this new development with Matt Holt doesn’t mean he’s gonna have to see any more of his questionable summer roommates while he’s in the city. He’s done with Fake Straight Nyma.

 

They take the elevator down to the parking garage, the first level this time, and he leads Lance over to his pride and joy, and as they walk excitement overwhelms him and he forgets about the trauma of watching his older brother get it on with a dealer he only met like 10 hours ago. He hasn’t touched his bike since winter break. He’s itching for it by the time they reach her.

 

There’s a tarp tucked neatly around it. Keith unties it, shucks it onto the floor without a second thought. Hopefully it’ll still be there when he gets back. 

 

Lance makes a quiet noise of awe.

 

Red is….well, red. And shines and gleams and  _ shit _ , he missed her. Whenever Keith started to gender his bike, he’s surely forgotten. The helmets are in the small trunk at the back, and he passes one to Lance, helps him make sure it’s on right and secure. 

 

Then he straddles the bike, sticks the keys in the ignition. Feels it come alive beneath him. He peeks over his shoulder, “coming?” he asks, anticipation more than obvious in his voice. 

 

Lance nods, but if he says anything it’s inaudible under the engine. He slides on behind him, long legs bumping against Keith’s, warm chest pressing up against his back. Arms he’s starting to get real used to curling around his middle. 

 

He pulls out of the small lot and into the city. The streets are mostly empty. There’s some trash on the road because it’s downtown and there always is. Lakeshore Boulevard is devoid of activity, easy to weave between a car here and there. Dawn is still an hour away, but the sky gets light slowly as they zoom from downtown to the east end. 

 

They can’t talk over the noise of the bike, but they don’t have to yet. They just revel in being close.

 

Keith peels off the freeway, and soon enough he’s slowing to a stop in a vacant parking lot across from Ashbridge’s Bay, the beach Lance grew up spending summers at. Keith has never seen it, but he trusts Lance that it’s worth it. 

 

They tuck the helmets away and Lance does a weird full body shimmy, “man!” he barks, “that was WILD,” he sits on a curb for a second, collecting himself. He has adorable helmet hair. He leaps back up off the curb, rejuvenated. “Colder than I expected,” he says.

 

“Sorry,” Keith says, he realizes that he’s used to the rush of wind no matter what time of year, that he’s been wearing Lance’s hoodie for hours now. “Do you want this back?” he asks, as they head towards the sand. 

 

“No way,” Lance says warmly, “keep it. You look ridiculous.” Keith doesn’t rise to that. He knows by now Lance isn’t serious. 

 

Lance takes them out almost to the water’s edge. Lake Ontario is still, starting to glow as the sun emerges over the day. 

 

There are bare, red metal frames of lifeguard stands dotted along the bay, empty of occupants this early in the morning. They climb up one, sit on the wooden platform. 

 

“I love it here,” says Lance. He pulls out his phone, his battery is waning, as he habitually checks the time every fifteen minutes. He doesn’t know why. He opens Music and puts on  _ Lemonade _ . Keith smiles. He likes this album. He’s starting to understand what Lance meant in Sonic Boom. He  _ wants _ to understand it, is what he really knows. 

 

“Music makes a memory,” Lance continues, which is really corny but Keith just nods. “I wanna know you forever too, Keith,” he blurts out. 

 

Keith buries his face in his hands, blush consuming him. “Jesus, Lance,” he says. When he looks back up Lance is just smiling again, so beautifully. 

 

“You kinda stress me out, you know that?” Keith isn’t trying to be serious anymore. 

 

Lance smiles wider and pulls something out of his pocket. “Wanna relax, then?” It’s the joint Hunk gifted him the day before. He’s been carrying it around the whole time since then, waiting for the right moment, Keith realizes. 

 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

 

Lance pulls out a lighter, too, which he tells him he keeps on him always because it’s a ‘good conversation starter, Keith. Smokers are interesting.’

 

He brings the joint to his lips and sparks the lighter a couple times, wind betraying him. Keith doesn’t hesitate to cup his hands around it as nearly futile protection. He can’t stop them from shaking a little. It lights, finally. Keith feels like, seventeen again. But this is better. 

 

Lance takes a drag, his cheeks hollow. He exhales slow. Him and his friends seem to have mastered the art of making that look really, really good, Keith thinks. 

 

He takes the joint from Lance’s long fingers. Tries very hard to make it look like he’s smoked recently besides the blunt earlier. But honestly, Nyma was the closest he’d gotten to seshing in a while. And see how that turned out.

 

He takes shorter puffs, because he doesn’t want to die coughing. That’s not too hot to guys, he thinks.

 

They trade it back and forth, and the album plays, and the sun rises slow. 

 

Keith catches Lance’s gaze in the liquid gold peeking over the horizon. He can’t help himself.

 

“Lance, your eyes are just wack,” he says.  _ Oh fuck he’s HIGH. _

 

Lance snorts, throws his head back and laughs. Keith watches the smooth column of his throat and gets super distracted from his embarrassment until Lance speaks. “Yeah, they kinda are, right? I’m surprised it took you this long to say.”

 

“I didn’t want to be rude,” Keith says quickly. “I didn’t know if it was okay to bring it up.”

 

“Well, you really knocked that one out smooth, eh?” Lance jokes. “I have heterochromia iridum. My mom has it too. So does one of my siblings. Pretty neat, right?”

 

“It doesn’t bother you when people ask all the time?”

 

“Nah. I mean people have been worse to me for other physical traits.” 

 

Keith blanks. He’s so so high and has suddenly run out of things to respond with. “Oh.” He says. “That’s very uncool.” 

 

Lance grins, “Right?” 

 

He glows in the light and Keith admires it and they keep talking quietly until the roach is fried. Lance puts it out on the metal frame of the lifeguard stand. 

 

He thinks about how Keith looks like every dumb soundcloud rapper, skater boy, and stoner-bad-influence he’s ever had a crush on, and how he speaks like none of them. He thinks about every instance that day he caught Keith staring, or listened to Keith speak impassioned of the things he loves. His mind rushes through every single weirdly magical thing Keith did to make him smile or laugh since they met. He flushes when he remembers dancing with Keith only hours ago, how well they fit together.

 

Lance realizes all at once with both dread and warmth that he could go ahead and say whatever garbled weed-brain things he wants to say on this lifeguard stand. It won’t change the fact that when they leave every song will be about Keith. And every song will probably keep being about Keith for the next 80 summers of his life.

 

Lance practices a basic mantra of  _ don’t tell him, don’t say it, don’t say it out loud, don’t tell him, don’t tell him _ , and as soon as Keith opens his mouth to speak Lance goes “I lo- I think I love you.” his voice is kind of uneven and his masculinity takes a brief hit. Keith gapes.

 

“Wait,” he says, “I mean like, love is a powerful word, it’s been- what? 24 hours? what am I saying- I mean, I think I’m gonna- I’m  _ gonna _ love you. I could love you. I probably  _ will… _ . Love you,” he says messily. “Uh. yeah. I want to love you. I want... you.” 

 

Keith’s heart races, eyes nearly burn, he blinks fast, crying would be so uncool right now, but weed does that to him- makes him emotional- so he says- “Yeah- yeah, Lance,” he exhales, “me- ..too- me too,” and rubs his face awkwardly. He really can’t speak right now, why’d this gotta happen high? But he's so _happy_.

 

“Oh,” Lance breathes, “No shit?” he yelps, happy as hell, no longer in control of his own volume, “really?” He almost goes to stand up, but what’s the point of that? He settles himself and stays sitting. “That’s- that’s great. Amazing. I thought- I thought I was being crazy! I mean, not to be corny- but I think I believe in soulmates because of you. You don’t think I’m crazy? I found you on a highway and brought you into my car.”    
  
“Maybe you’re crazy,” Keith shrugs, “but,” he slides closer, up against Lance’s side. He’s so warm. “But I’ve been told I’m impulsive to a fault. I got in the car. I think we make a good team.” It’s taking him longer to think, to process, but he has a pretty clear idea of what he wants now.

 

Lance is thinking faster, too, the music is doing that immersive thing it does, and All Night is playing once again. 

 

He brings his palm up against Keith’s cheek, rubs over the vague imprint of Shay’s red lipstick with his thumb, leans down before either of them can say anything else dumb and closes the space between their lips. The baseline off his phone is good. So is the kiss. A little clumsy. Keith’s lips are soft, and part willingly, and he sorta sighs against it and hands travel. Keith sneaks his arms around Lance’s middle, under the hem of his tank top, up the sides of his ribs, and Lance runs his fingers through Keith’s hair. 

 

They don't hold back, not after the day they've had together. They make out vigorously for like, five minutes. 

 

When they pull back, Keith is flushed and his eyes are just barely open, it takes him a minute to come back online. Everything is sorta slow motion. He reaches shakily into his own pocket. Presents his pocket knife in his palm. 

 

“You got it back for me,” he says quietly, “you can look at it, if you want.”

 

Lance picks it up like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. He sees the “KK”  engraved on the side 

 

“Krolia Kogane,” Keith says quietly. “Mom’s name. I don’t know if they kept each others, or the ones with their own. I don’t know. But that’s mom’s name.” 

 

“Krolia Kogane,” Lance nods, he wraps his arm around Keith and pulls him against him. “Keith Kogane,” he says, quieter. “Sounds like a pretty cool reporter. Or maybe a stuntman.” 

 

Keith snickers into his shoulder. 

 

Lance flicks open the blade. It’s clean and free of nicks, well cared for. He turns it over in his hand but eventually gives it back to Keith. It looks better in his gloved grip. Keith twirls it impressively for a second. Thinks to flick the blade back in and then thinks again. He dusts the sand off a part of the wooden platform they’re sitting on and starts to carve into the splinters next to countless other pieces of vandalism. Probably stupid teenagers in love, too. 

 

He finishes up a ‘KK+LM’ in a shitty, angular heart. Lance kisses his temple and squeezes him, says “that’s too fucking cute, dude.” 

 

Keith squirms out of his grip so he can punch him lightly in the arm, and then resituates himself much more comfortably, leaning back against Lance’s chest between his long legs. He doesn’t know if its the weed that makes it feel so natural, or if Lance is the only person he’s ever trusted so fast, but he feels so, so good. The sun keeps rising, and with it the potential of summer. 

 

Lance checks his phone, 5 A.M. again, and the battery dies. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Once their high dulls down Lance gives Keith directions back to his house and gets dogpiled by his whole family and his mom freaks out at him from being awol for a day. Lance introduces his bf he's had exactly three (3) hours. They’re so exhausted they climb into lances childhood bed and sleep until sundown. They spend the whole summer together and Lance drives Keith back to Montreal with co-curated playlists. It turns out they go to the same university.  
> (Also im finna not endorse underage drinking or smoking. Pitchers is real but I've never actually been! Also hit me up on tumblr (while it lives, @starmansane) abt any of these themes or experiences. This story has been in my brain for too long not to discuss.)


End file.
